That Others May Live
by riversidewren
Summary: "This one?" The gorgeous, willowy model stroking his chest looked up at him, her eyes slanted seductively as she ran a finger over a scar to the right of his sternum. "Rescue of a downed Navy SEAL from the waters off Sudan. Never made the news." Modern AU where the boys are members of an elite military medical team. Expect all the main players to make an appearance.
1. Chapter 1

**This is an idea I've had percolating in my mind for some time. I don't own the characters, and although the CCATT and Air Force Pararescue teams are real, this story is purely fictional. The title of the story is the motto for the Pararescue Service. Numerous brave men have given their lives over the course of its history so that others may live.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER I**

Except for the odd crushed beer can or crumpled McDonald's bag, the parking garage next to the hospital was empty at 0430. By 0800, it would be full, with office staff hurrying to clock in while dodging the cars cruising for parking spaces. Heavily pregnant women, in the first stage of labor, would be gingerly making their way along the sidewalk as they leaned on their partners' arms, counting the steps to labor and delivery admission.

As Athos pulled his black Lexus into the physician's aisle, he smiled ruefully to see that his usual space—the first one on the left—was free, along with most of the slots, except for the two occupied by the ER physicians on duty. Parking his car, he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts before he started the whirlwind of Surgical ICU rounds. It was Friday, and he was nearing the end of the week from hell. His stomach was churning from the bottle of cheap wine he'd consumed with leftover Thai food last night, and he felt vaguely nauseous. He fervently hoped that his usual morning routine on the treadmill would dull the roaring headache he had developed on the thirty minute drive.

It was the the middle of July, well into the lazy hot days of summer. Families around the area were vacationing on the Virginia coast or flocking to the mountains of North Carolina. Most physicians with specialities that involved sane business hours had similarly slower schedules. However, for the physicians at the busiest trauma center in Washington DC, the pace of admissions inevitably picked up as gang wars heated up and people indulged in more reckless behavior on holiday. Although the Joint Military Medical Center's primary purpose was to care for active duty personnel, it served civilian trauma victims as well, thus enabling the military physicians to keep their skills sharp for the critical injuries they would need to treat in any combat situation.

Typically, large amounts of alcohol and drugs were involved in triggering their patients' injuries-often both. This was a toxic mix in any situation, but for a patient in hypovolemic shock after a knife wound to the chest, it made the risks of surgery often astronomically high. And to be honest, the thrill of taking that risk-and often beating the odds-was exactly what had led Athos into trauma surgery.

The decision had enraged his father, and had estranged him from his family to some degree, but it had saved him from a future of taking over his father's enormously successful plastic surgery practice. Every time he thought of what it would have been like living out his days providing breast implants for trophy wives and sucking cellulite from their executive husbands' waists, he shuddered.

Eyes still shut, he tried to focus his thoughts, concentrating on the diaphragmatic breathing that his ex-wife, who was a ardent practitioner of yoga, had had taught him. _Anne._ He suddenly thought of her lithe body and exotic green eyes, and felt the all too familiar pain. _Don't go there. Not this morning._

It was ironic that in his quest to escape his father's control, he had joined the military, thus trading one master for another. His medical school classmates had thought him insane when he had decided to accept a scholarship from the Air Force for his last three years of medical school. Three years of free tuition was enticing, they argued, but it would mean he would have to serve three years on active duty after his training was completed. Those years were some of the most important years in a physician's career, and he would be gathering dust in a decrepit military hospital. But for Athos, the decision had been made for him the day his father had refused to continue to pay for his schooling unless he committed to a career in plastic surgery. _I'll be damned if I will cave in to him or take out $150,000 in loans._

So he had signed the commitment papers, taken the oath as an officer in the United States Air Force, and had never looked back. His seven years of training had flown by, as had his three years of active duty. As a trauma surgeon, his skills were in demand for the CCATT (Critical Care Air Transport Team) program. The CCATT teams had been the brainchild of several Air Force ICU physicians in the late 1980s. They had envisioned a mobile ICU that could rapidly transport the most severely injured soldiers from the fiercest battlefield conditions, providing the high-level care that would keep them alive until they got to a hospital. As one of the best trauma surgeons in the military, Athos had been recruited for one of the elite Pararescue CCATT teams.

Athos had been surprised to learn that the Air Force had a Special Operations program, as he had only ever heard of the more well-known Navy SEALs and Army Delta Force Special Operations teams. However, the more he had read about the program, the more it had fired his imagination. The Pararescue service, he had learned, was the only U.S. Department of Defense combat force specifically organized and equipped to conduct full spectrum personnel recovery. As he did more research and toured some of the training facilities, he had quickly realized that the Air Force Pararescue Jumpers (PJs, as they were nicknamed) more than matched the the SEALS and Delta Force operatives in terms of physical and mental toughness.

When he had been briefed on the training process, he had been informed up front that although he was a physician, he would be expected to meet the same exacting standards as the non-medical airmen. The training was extensive and grueling, preparing the men to work as operatives asked with recovery and medical treatment of personnel in humanitarian and combat environments, often under impossible conditions. It included intense physical training, scuba school, SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) training, parachute certification, and weapons training.

In addition, the training would add two years to his commitment, as he would only be working in the hospital one week out of the month. The rest of the time, he would be at "Superman School," as the PJ training program was known. The fact that the program had an attrition rate of around 87% only added to the attraction for Athos.

During PJ training, he had met his the two men who had become his closest friends, and together they had formed a CCATT unit that had a track record that was second to none. The fourth and most senior team member, Bazin, had recently retired, and they were actively seeking a replacement for him. Porthos, the pulmonary/critical care specialist, was a quiet tower of strength, able to handle difficult airways or raging infections in primitive conditions with aplomb. Aramis, the anesthesiologist, was a different sort altogether. Athos smiled as he thought of his comrade. Somehow, the man was able to combine laser-like intensity in the operating room with a carefree, charming personality outside of it. Within three short months of meeting Aramis, Athos has lost count of the women the Spanish-born physician had been involved with.

"What can I say?" Aramis would shrug with a grin. "I'm irresistible...you are the moody intellectual, Porthos is the friendly jock everyone loves, and me? I'm more the romantic hero type."

As he made his way to the back entrance of the hospital, Athos crossed his fingers that he would not cross paths with Colonel Treville. As a newly-promoted Lieutenant Colonel and the head of the trauma surgery program, Athos was expected to be the best of examples for his troops. Treville had scolded him roundly the last time he had caught him arriving to work in his dark grey PT uniform rather than his dress blues and spit-shined shoes.

Slipping through the sliding doors, he breathed a sigh of relief. Treville was nowhere in sight. As took the elevator up to the fourth floor and entered the call room he habitually used, he heard a faint mew to his left. Looking down, he saw the tortoiseshell kitten that he had rescued several weeks ago from a storm drain. The animal had been emaciated and sickly, and he had half expected it to die. However, he had smuggled her-it was a she, although he had refrained from giving her a name as of yet- _can't get too attached-_ into one of the rarely used call rooms on the eighth floor.

Somehow, he had managed to slip a 24 gauge IV into the cat's tiny paw. He had marvelled how placidly the cat had laid still, allowing the intravenous fluids to work their magic. Rehydration had done wonders for the animal, and as the kitten regained her strength, she had taken up residence in the chief of trauma surgery's call room. She had taken up residence in his his heart before he knew what hit him. _Just like Anne._

He sighed and picked up the kitten with a smile, holding her close to his chest and stroking her fur as she purred in delight. "What **am** I going to do with you? A call room is no place for a kitten to live…but neither is my apartment, since I am…. _barely ever there, except to sleep or change clothes_." Anne's bitter words echoed in his head, and he pushed them to the back of his mind. Refusing to allow the memories to make an early morning assault on his emotions, he settled the cat down on the bed.

"I'm going to work out," he informed her gravely. "And can you **please** stop looking so adorable? If anyone finds you here, it will completely ruin the tough-as-nails image I've carefully cultivated with the medical students."

Thirty minutes later, he had run five miles on the treadmill. Shedding his grimy, sweaty PT uniform, he jumped into the uninviting shower in the locker room, and swore under his breath. _No hot water. Again. Sometimes I think Treville shuts it off on purpose_.

As the clock registered 0530, he strode into the physicians' so-called "lounge." The room had seen better days, and was graced with peeling green paint of a particularly nauseating hue. A battered coffee pot was brewing a dark liquid which Athos knew would likely taste like liquefied ash when it made its way into his mouth. _No matter. At least there will be caffeine, and lots of it._ He grabbed one of the chipped blue mugs that sported the logo of the United States Air Force Medical Corps, and set to filling it.

A sudden raucous laugh drew his attention to the rickety table that squatted next to the ancient refrigerator. That applicance was currently humming at a decibel level that led one to believe it was about to launch itself into orbit. _No, not now,_ he groaned internally. _No one should be gambling this early in the morning unless they are in Vegas. Which we are not._

"You cheated!" came the indignant shout.

"What's going on, Porthos?" he inquired, using his most detached voice as he topped off his mug. Without turning around, he already knew the answer.

A burly dark-skinned man, his biceps bulging in his dark green scrubs, grinned as he stood up and gathered up the money in the center of the table.

"Dujon and I were just havin' a discussion about personal integrity." His nonchalance only enraged the gaunt, red-eyed kidney specialist sitting across from him. Athos sighed. _This was going to be one of those mornings._

"Your **friend,** Colonel, is playing with marked cards," hissed Dujon, spittle flying out from between his large, crooked teeth as he jumped up from the table.

"Oohh, that's slander!" The big man roared with laughter again, sending his opponent into a fury. "I have never played anything but fair. Tell him, Athos!"

"Don't involve me in this," the surgeon intoned, a model of boredom as he leaned against the refrigerator, sipping his coffee.

"There is only one way to resolve this," shrilled Dujon. "I was a champion wrestler in my high school days. The best in all of Loving County, Texas!"

"And how just how big is the population of said county?" inquired Porthos innocently. "More or less than 50 souls?"

"I'll have you know we hit 82 at the last census," growled his opponent.

Porthos smirked. "Is that humans or cows?"

Without warning, Dujon barrelled into him. For a thin man, he had surprising strength, although Porthos clearly outweighed him by fifty pounds.

Athos watched calmly as they grappled with each other, bouncing from table to broken sofa to wall. One man would gain the upper hand for a few moments, then the other would fight back doggedly. Finally, the surgeon looked at his watch and sighed. Seizing a ceramic flower pot that had been sitting on the counter since Aramis had been sent some geraniums by one of the elderly nurses on Valentine's Day, he hit Dujon square on the head, causing him to fall to the floor, stunned.

Porthos, breathing heavily, looked up and grinned. "What happened to being an officer and a gentleman?"

"Who has time? Besides, Treville wants to see us." Refilling his mug, Athos glanced at Porthos. "Where's Aramis? He knew there might be an early morning meeting today."

Porthos suddenly looked uncomfortable. "No…" Athos put down his mug and scrubbed his face with both hands. " **Don't** tell me he's that stupid."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As dawn was breaking over the penthouse suite of the historic building at one of the most sought-after addresses in Washington, Aramis sighed in contentment. _Every morning should start out this way._

"This one?" The gorgeous, willowy model stroking his chest looked up at him, her eyes slanting seductively as she ran a finger over a scar to the right of his sternum.

"Rescue of a downed Navy SEAL from the waters off Sudan." His voice lowered as he smiled at her. "It was top secret. Never made the news."

Her sparkling blue eyes widened in admiration. "And this one?"

"Firefight in Afghanistan. Got hit while trying to rescue three kidnapped aid workers." He slipped an arm behind his head nonchalantly. "Adele, it was barely a scratch. We got them out safely, that's what matters."

"But the scar is 10 inches long! You must have been badly hurt!" Her long auburn hair spread out across his bare chest as she suddenly slipped her arms around him. "What if you had been killed? We would never have…" Her voice trembled.

Her eyes drifted to an irregular red mark below his left ribcage. "What about that one?" she whispered.

He smirked. "Your nails…from last night."

She rolled her eyes and playfully pushed him away. "You should probably think about leaving. Armand will be home soon. His flight was supposed to arrive at 0530."

"The Chief of the Office of Special Investigations is lowering himself to take the red-eye?" Aramis raised an eyebrow.

Adele sat up, hugging her arms around her body. "He says he hates to be away from me for longer than absolutely necessary. Plus…" she smiled ruefully. "It's cheaper. And Armand is all about saving money."

A door suddenly slammed shut from the far reaches of the apartment. "Adele? Adele, darling! Are you up?"

"Oh no! He's early!" Panic showed in her face. "You've got to get out of here!"

"And just how do you propose I do that?" he hissed. "You live in a penthouse!"

She thought for a moment. "The pool!"

"What?!"

"Get your stuff!" She pushed him off the bed, frantically gathering up his flight suit and beret as she threw on a silk dressing gown. "There's a drop-off from the edge of the infinity pool. If you are agile, which I believe you demonstrated quite nicely last night, it will get you safely to the patio of the apartment below us. Now hurry!"

"My boots!" He lunged under her dressing table, hitting his head as he stood up. "Ow!" He scrambled for the sliding glass door, then looked back at her in despair. "My pistol! Where is it?"

Footsteps could be heard nearing the door. "Darling! I'm home!"

"We can't worry about it now!" she hissed.

"There!" He sighted it across the room, several feet from the bed.

"There's no time!" Adele pushed him out the door, then frantically kicked the pistol under the bed. Just as she did so, the door to the bedroom opened, and Colonel Armand Richelieu stood staring at her, his eyes hazy with desire.

"Armand!" She pasted a smile on her face, and went to him immediately, throwing her arms around his neck. "I missed you!"

His eyes flicked past her to the sliding glass door, which was still several inches ajar.

"It's rather chilly in here, isn't it, my love?"

She looked up at him, her blue eyes a picture of innocence. "Do you think so? I'm rather hot..it's why I just opened the door a bit—the cold breeze always cools it down so quickly. I'll go close it."

A hand shot out and seized her arm, causing her to wince. "Leave it, darling. I can't stay for long." His blue-grey eyes narrowed, causing her heart to beat wildly with fear. "That is, you won't have a chance to entertain me for too long. I have a meeting in a little over an hour."

Adele bit her lip, affecting a pout that she knew from experience that Richelieu found very enticing. "But I hardly ever get to see you anymore!"

"I somehow suspect that you are quite skilled at finding ways to amuse yourself."

"But I'd rather amuse myself with you!" she protested prettily, forcing a smile as his hands eased the dressing gown off her shoulders.

"Would you now?" he asked, his tone cool. "Well, you have ten minutes to prove it to me. The clock starts now, so I hope you are ready to perform at your best. **Go**."

Meanwhile, Aramis had shimmied off the edge of the pool onto the patio below. Stealthily making his way to the sliding glass door, he had found it unlocked. Sliding it open a trifle, he cocked an ear, hearing the strains of thumping techno music coming from the far end of the apartment. Looking down at his flight suit, he ripped off his Velcro name patch and stuffed it in his pocket. _If I'm seen, I sure as hell don't want anyone to be able to read my name._ Easing himself inside the kitchen, he darted for the main door, and was out in a matter of seconds, closing it softly behind him.

 _Elevator..too obvious. Can't risk the security camera catching me in uniform. It was a godsend it was down for a few minutes last night when I came in_. He made for the end of the hallway, sure he had seen an old fire escape on the side of the historic building. Testing the door gingerly, he pushed it open once he had managed to deactivate the alarm. Emerging onto the 15th floor section, he swallowed as he looked down at the succession of ladders snaking down the building.

 _God, how I hate heights. Why the **hell** did I let Athos talk me into staying in PJ school? This is almost worse than parachuting._ Making his way down the ladders, he had reached the last one when he realized that there was a ten foot drop to the ground. Easing himself down to the last bar, maroon beret between his teeth, he gripped the bar tightly and swung his legs down, dangling in the air.

"Aramis, you are **so** predictable," called a familiar voice. "It's a very bad habit. What is it that Treville always says? _Predictability will ensure a quick path to an early grave_?"

Aramis scowled, then let himself drop to the ground, landing awkwardly in front of Athos and Porthos.

"Mornin', lover boy," drawled Porthos. "I'm gettin' tired of having to hunt you down for these last-minute meetings. You may not know this, but your mobile has an amazin' little feature called text messaging. You might want to try checkin' it out. Treville won't be pleased you've ignored his texts."

Aramis glanced at his phone, then groaned.

 _0600\. My office. Acknowledge receipt._

 _I'm waiting._

 _I'M NOW MORE THAN ANNOYED. Expect an hour of monitored PT at 0400 for the next two weeks with Master Sergeant Irma. Enjoy."_

"No! Not the Irminator!"

Athos grinned. "I think she has a thing for you, Aramis. There was a definite gleam in her eye when she had you doing shirtless pullups the last time you had mandatory PT."

Porthos roared with laughter. "Now **that** would be worth gettin' up early for. Keep an eye out for me in the bleachers on the parade ground, Athos..I'll be the one in the front row with my Starbucks, watching as the Irminator puts you through your paces."

* * *

 **This is my first attempt at an AU...if you have a moment, let me know what you think. Have I kept everyone in character?**

 **I have a rough plan of following the episodes of the show as they can be adapted to this modern setting...this will take a bit of thought, so updates will not be nearly as frequent as with my other stories. Thank you for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, follows, and favorites! I hope you enjoy this chapter...**

* * *

 **CHAPTER II**

Captain Charles d'Artagnan woke up and groaned, burrowing his head deeper into the pillow. He had a splitting headache, and was unsure exactly where he was. Cautiously opening one of his eyes, he found himself in a lavishly furnished room on what was apparently at least the 20th floor of a very expensive hotel. Blinking at the sunlight filtering through the nearly floor to ceiling window opposite the bed, he was treated to a stunning panoramic view of the DC skyline. A sleek black leather sofa was off to the left in a slightly sunken area, with a low mahogany table resting in front of it. An abstract marble sculpture was perfectly positioned in the center of its gleaming surface.

 _Where the hell am I? This is **not** the Visiting Officer's Quarters at Andrews Air Force Base_. He sat up, disentangling himself from the cream-colored silken sheets, and reached for the elegant stationary sitting on the bedside table. _Oriental Suite, the Mandarin Oriental, Washington DC._

Something was **definitely** wrong. He glanced at the pillow next to his, and saw the clear indentation of a head. _Someone was here? How do I **not** remember?_ An elegant blue card was half tucked under the pillow. Opening it, he read the message written in a flowing feminine script.

 _Wonderful night. I'd be more careful with your virtue…and your wallet…next time though. x_

 _Think. Think!_ He looked around frantically for his mobile phone, then spotted it lying atop his clothes on a chair. Diving for it, he entered the passcode and quickly looked up the hotel suite on his web browser. _Oriental Suite, $2500 per night._

In shock, he went to sit down, and nearly tripped over an empty bottle of Dom Perignon that was lying on the floor. _Who the heck is **paying** for this?_

He suddenly picked up his mobile phone and dialed the main number for the hotel that was on the website.

"Thank you for calling the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Washington, DC. This is Amelia speaking. How may I assist you?"

"I…ah…I would like to be connected to the Oriental Suite, please."

"Certainly, sir. Security requirements for that suite do require that the party you are trying to reach be identified by the caller. May I ask for the guest's name?"

He thought wildly, then made a guess that he desperately hoped was wrong.

"D'Artagnan? At least… I believe he is one of the guests."

"Thank you, sir. Captain d'Artagnan is in fact the sole guest registered for the Oriental Suite. Just a moment. I'll be happy to put your call through."

An instant later, the phone in the room began ringing. D'Artagnan switched his mobile off, and put his head in his hands. As he looked down at the carpet, he saw a gold foil matchbook emblazoned in black script with the words _The Establishment_.

Then it all came back to him…at least, some of it...

ooo

D'Artagnan had just driven into DC early the previous evening, ready to meet a friend from medical school in order to celebrate his new posting at Andrews Air Force Base.

Although he would be the proverbial low surgeon on the totem pole, at least he would finally no longer be in training. He was now a board-certified orthopaedic surgeon, having completed orthopaedic residency at the famed Hospital for Special Surgery in New York, then a very prestigious one year fellowship in orthopaedic trauma at Baltimore Shock Trauma. This position had been the gateway to gaining a coveted place on the orthopaedics staff at the Joint Military Medical Center.

 _I'll meet you at the Establishment_ , the text from Wyatt had read _. Google their website for directions. For God's sake, do NOT show up looking like you just came off a basketball court. The women in DC are discriminating, and this place is classy._

He arrived just before 10 pm at the bar, which was located in a historic old bank building on Embassy Row. D'Artagnan prided himself on being punctual, and waited outside, his patience with his friend's chronic lateness waning the longer he waited.

Pulling out his phone, he sent a text. _Where are you? Been waiting 10 minutes already._

A steady stream of well-dressed patrons, many of whom seemed to be connected with the various consulates on the surrounding streets, passed by him. He sighed, then decided to go in. _I might as well have a drink while I wait._ As he reached the massive oaken door, someone slammed into him from the side.

"Hey!" cried d'Artagnan, glaring at the tall, immaculately dressed man.

"I believe you owe me an apology." The voice was cultured, but condescending. The speaker, tall and appearing to be of Arab origin, had a matinee-idol face and dark hair that was slicked back with a ridiculous amount of hair product. He was wearing an expensive grey suit that d'Artagnan guessed was made to measure.

"An apology? **You're** the one who almost knocked **me** over!"

"Perhaps someone needs to teach you some manners!" snarled the man.

"Roshan, leave him." A petite woman with arresting green eyes suddenly appeared at his side, curving her arm around the tall man's waist. She was dressed in a midnight blue sheath dress with cut out shoulders. The dress fit her like a glove, highlighting the elegant curves of her slim, supple body. D'Artagnan felt his mouth go dry as he stared at her. Long, dark hair curled around her shoulders, and a simple drop necklace with a lone diamond graced her neck.

The man glared at d'Artagnan for a moment longer, and the brunette tugged at his arm. " **Please** don't make an issue of it, Rohan! I'm sure he didn't mean it!" She shot an imploring glance at d'Artagnan, then was towed away by her companion as the doorman hailed them. "Mr. Hariri! Delighted to see you!" They were ushered in as VIPs.

After arguing with the same doorman for several minutes, d'Artagnan finally was able to gain entrance by virtue of the fact that Wyatt had reserved a table for them. He was shown to a tiny table for two that was jammed in behind a large pillar, just next to the restrooms.

"Brilliant," muttered d'Artagnan, glancing across the room to see the woman and her escort seated at the long bar together. She was sipping a nearly empty martini, her attention focused on her companion, who seemed to be telling a long and involved story. Suddenly, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, causing her to glance away, blushing. Her eye caught d'Artagnan's for a minute, and he sensed she was uneasy. A moment later, the bartender placed two fresh drinks in front of them. The brunette dropped her purse, and as Roshan bent over to pick it up, d'Artagnan, blinking, swore he had seen her hand hover over her date's drink for just an instant.

Passing the slim Prada clutch back to her, the diplomat took a large swallow of the martini, then grinned at her. A few minutes later, she excused herself, then walked past d'Artagnan's table, her hips gently swaying as she walked. As she passed by, she unobtrusively dropped a folded napkin in his lap with a note hastily scrawled on it.

 _I'm in over my head with this guy. Please get me out of here! He's starting to scare me. I had no idea he was like this!_

He sighed. _What am I getting myself involved in?_

When he saw her heading back, d'Artagnan pulled her behind the pillar. She was obviously distressed, but he was still wary.

"What do you want me to do? And what **exactly** am I getting myself into?"

As her green eyes began to fill with tears, she pleaded, "Please! You have to help me!" Her voice rose in a panic. "It's like I'm having a...a flashback! Several years ago, a man I loved tried to kill me….and this guy is starting to remind me of him! I've got to get out of here!"

"Okay, okay!" d'Artagnan put his arms on her shoulders, and spoke to her soothingly. "I'll help you. My friend is late anyway, so I've got some time to kill." He glanced around the pillar to see Roshan chatting up a curvaceous redhead in a black minidress. "Your man seems to be otherwise engaged at the moment. Come on." Taking her by the arm, he propelled her through the back of the bar into the kitchen.

"What are you.…"

As they burst through the swinging doors, the kitchen staff stopped to stare at them. "Good evening," D'Artagnan nodded at the kitchen staff, and kept moving. "Lovely place you have here. Keep up the good work." His eyes scanned the large room, and fell on an emergency exit. "Go!" he hissed. As he pushed the door open, an alarm began to blare, and they began to run.

ooo

Suddenly, d'Artagnan realized that his mobile was ringing, and was snapped back to the present. "Hello?"

"Captain Charles d'Artagnan?"

"Speaking."

"This is the American Express Early Fraud Detection Program. My name is Anthony. Sir, we have noticed an unusual pattern of activity on your card within the past twelve hours, and wanted to take steps to verify that the charges placed were authorized by you."

D'Artagnan felt his stomach drop. "An unusual pattern?"

"Yes. Sir, may I have the last four digits of your social security number?"

"3693. What charges were placed?"

The representative smoothly stuck to his script. "First of all, I would like to confirm that you are indeed currently staying in the Oriental Suite at the Mandarin Oriental hotel in Washington, DC. One night was charged under your card last night for $2500...plus 14.5% hotel tax and a $525 bottle of 2002 Dom Perignon, for a grand total of $3657. Is that correct?"

"NO!"d'Artagnan blurted out. "I absolutely did NOT…" Suddenly he stopped and looked around him. It was impossible to deny that he was indeed standing in an opulent hotel suite at the Mandarin Oriental with an empty bottle of Dom Perignon on the floor. Picking up the bottle, he groaned as he read the label. _2002._ "No wait…that's correct. I forgot about that...apparently it was a long night." He gave a weak laugh. "We've all been there, right?"

"Well, I hope you are enjoying your _unexpected_ stay." D'Artagnan could almost see the customer service representative smirking over the phone. "Now to the two other charges…a $2000 Air Canada gift card?"

"That did NOT come from me!" He began rummaging through his wallet, searching for his American Express card.

A moment of silence. "Are you _quite_ sure, sir?"

"This time, yes."

"Is the card currently in your possession?"

"Just a minute! I'm checking!" Frustrated, he pulled every card out of his wallet and looked through them twice. "Apparently not."

"So the $3850 Tag Heuer watch bought at the Duty Free shop at Washington Dulles International Airport was not an authorized charge?"

"WHAT?" d'Artagnan choked back the profanity that rose to his mouth. "Definitely not."

"Very well, sir. As the card is no longer in your possession and the last two charges were not authorized, we will cancel your card effective immediately. A new one will be reissued, and we can arrange for it to be sent by Federal Express to you within the next twenty four hours. Shall I send it to the Mandarin Oriental?"

Cursing under his breath, the captain controlled himself with an effort. "No, thank you. I will be checking out shortly, as I have a meeting at 0800." He glanced at the clock and was horrified to see it was 0750. "Okay, I've…I've gotta go! I'll call back by noon with the address to send the card to, as I'm currently traveling. Thank you! Good catch on the unauthorized charges!" He switched the phone off before the representative could reply, and began to throw on his clothes, simultaneously switching on the TV to check the local weather on the morning news.

"Uniform…uniform…" he glanced around the room and swore. "Okay, no uniform….and I have **no idea** where my car is right now… I'll be late to my interview for the CCATT team…and will have to show up in rumpled clothes I wore to a club last night. That'll make a **perfect** first impression."

All of a sudden, the news anchor's voice caught his attention. "In other news, Ambassador Rohan Hariri of Saudi Arabia was found dead early this morning in an alley near the Saudi Consulate. Ambassador Hariri had no known medical conditions, and there were no signs of foul play. An autopsy is expected to be conducted today." D'Artagnan stared at the screen at the face of the dead man, and in his mind, he saw the dark-haired woman's hand pause over Hariri's drink just for an instant. _Long enough to have poisoned him._

xxx

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis stood at attention in front of Colonel Treville's desk. Their commander leaned back in his chair and stared at them for a moment, then stood up and sat on the edge of his desk.

"This is not a happy Monday for your commanding officer. I've had some complaints. To be specific, there are allegations that you have had some recent…confrontations with OSI agents? Is that true?" His steely blue eyes came to rest on Athos, the highest ranking of his men.

"Let me think…no, sir. Because that would be conduct unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman, sir."

Treville narrowed his eyes at his men. "I give you fair warning…I can't protect you from the Office of Special Investigations if Richelieu decides to stir up trouble. As the head of counterintelligence for the Air Force, he has the direct ear of the Secretary of the Air Force…and the President. And I just hear he made the selection list for Brigadier General...so I assume he is in the President's favor as well."

"Speaking of the President…" Treville looked at his men. "I've been summoned to the White House."

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look.

"Really?" Athos' eyes were instantly wary. "Any idea why, sir?"

"Well, I've ostensibly been asked for a game of tennis, but I believe it has something to do with the medical care for the First Family. So **please** try not to stir up anything with Richelieu's staff while I'm gone."

"We'll be on our best behavior, sir," replied Aramis innocently, offering the Colonel a sunny smile. "Model citizens, see?"

Treville raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me for being skeptical."

xxx

"Ha! Foot fault!" crowed President Louis Bourbon. Treville looked up at him, and fought the urge to throttle the leader of the United States of America. _How the HELL can he **possibly** see the position of my feet from nearly 80 feet away?_

"Thank you for pointing out my error, Mr. President." Treville glanced over at the First Lady, who was playing as his doubles partner. Anne Wainwright Bourbon had played tennis at Stanford University, and had made the All-Pac 12 Conference Team. Not only was she a far better athlete than her husband, but she was a joy to play with..unlike the arrogant President.

Treville sometimes wondered just how in the world Louis had succeeded in getting the American public to elect him as their leader-and as the youngest President ever, no less. It had been thought that no one younger than JFK would ever become President, but then along had come Louis, the son of one of the wealthiest oil men in America. His father's money had gotten him elected to Congress at the age of 26, and by 34 he was the junior senator from Texas.

His courtship of Anne, who was the daughter of a storied old-money North Carolina family, had enchanted the country, and they had married just 12 months before the election. Treville suspected that Anne, who was fluent in Spanish, had been a key factor in Louis' victory. The campaign had come down to the wire, and Anne had been tireless in stumping for her husband. If she was not gracing the couch of a late night talk show, winning over the acerbic host with her beauty and wit, she was visiting an inner city public health clinic in Spanish Harlem, soothing crying babies while talking companionably to their teenage mothers.

Anne, her back to her husband, rolled her eyes at Treville. _He's **such** a cheater_ , she mouthed.

Treville grinned, and prepared to receive service from Richelieu. The Colonel tossed the ball in the air, then sliced a serve to the far right of the court. Treville, lunging, somehow got his racket on the ball, and sent a winner down the baseline. Anne squealed and gave Treville a high five. "Brilliant shot!"

"Oh, but the ball's been damaged." Richelieu's sarcastic voice came floating over the net. "Look."

He held up the ball and smirked, indicated a small nick along one of the seams. "You know what the rules say...if a ball gets damaged, or broken, during play, the point is to be replayed. Such a shame after all that effort, Treville."

A Secret Service man stepped on to the court. "Excuse me, Mr. President, but you asked me to inform you when it was 8:45."

"Ah, yes! Thank you, Wilson." Louis jogged over to the sideline, and accepted the proffered towel with the Presidential seal. Treville extended a hand to Anne. "It was a pleasure, as always."

"And as always, you were the perfect gentleman." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Unlike **some** people on this court."

"Anne, darling! **So** sorry you didn't get a chance to relive your glory days!" Louis called. "But it appears that Colonel..excuse me, General—Select," he winked at Richelieu, punching him playfully on the shoulder, "and I have upped our game. Better luck next time! Here, give me a congratulatory kiss!"

Anne smiled, and dutifully kissed her husband, avoiding close contact with his sweat-soaked tennis shirt.

"There's a dear. Now off to your engagement…what important business are you up to today? Judging a kindergarten finger painting competition? Picking out the color for the draperies in the guest room at Camp David?" He laughed, oblivious to the remote expression on Anne's face.

"Actually, I'm testifying before Congress on behalf of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation."

"Well done! Great exposure! Every time you beat the drum for your condition, it gets fantastic press! Nothing like a pretty face to make a disease real to the masses. Plus, talking about your...challenges.. with your disease makes you more relatable-and is sure to improve my approval ratings by extension. I'll look for you on CNN tonight!"

Picking up her racket and shrugging on a light jacket, Anne left without a word, another Secret Service agent trailing along behind her.

"Come, Treville, have a beer!" The President walked over to a cooler sporting the Presidential seal that sat at the edge of the court. "Ah, one of the perks of leading the free world…..feast your eyes on this!" As he lifted the lid, Treville stared in shock at the golden bottle. "Is that…"

"Yes, the ambrosial pinnacle of the beer world...Sam Adams Utopia!"

"But... it's not due out until next year! Isn't it only every two years that they release a limited amount?"

"When you are president," Louis lowered his voice and winked with a chuckle, "you can get **anything** you want Treville, at **any time…for free**! Drink up! This liquid gold has been …how do they make it again, Armand?"

"Each batch, Mr. President, is aged in sherry, brandy, cognac, bourbon, and scotch casks for up to 18 years. Just a touch of maple syrup is added. It's the most expensive beer in America…some would say it's fit for a King," remarked Richelieu slyly.

"And they would be **right**! In fact, that's part of why I brought you here today, Treville. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that the medical team for the President needs to be brought into the 21st century. This idea of having a White House physician…it just doesn't **do** anything for me….it's like I'm living the life of Harry Truman! I'm trying to capture the imagination of the Millennial Generation...and I've been rethinking every aspect of how the White House runs. We need a new way of doing business! How about this...I'm envisioning a crack military medical team…with-what do you call it? TIGER capability?"

"I believe you are referring to CCATT, Mr. President," Treville offered politely.

"Yes, that's it! I want a medical team with…fancy flight suits with some kind of eye-catching squadron patch that identifies them as my men—or women, I suppose….but **please** make them attractive as well as capable if you recruit females…. and I want them to be the best you have!" If my wife…" he lowered his voice…" **is** able to become pregnant…and God knows we've tried everything except singing "God Bless America" while…well, you know….I **must** have the best medical care for her at all times. They tell me this type I diabetes thing can be a problem in pregnancy. It's such a bore, really…all that constant checking of blood sugar and carb counting. I don't know how Anne does it! I would go insane….after all, I'm really not one for rules and restrictions." He giggled. "So, off with you, Treville! Comb your ranks and find me the best! You've got until….oh, at least Monday. I want to have something catchy to announce when I go on Jimmy Kimmel next week."

* * *

 **Next time...d'Artagnan does not make a good first impression...**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER III**

Athos sat waiting in the conference room adjacent to Treville's office, tugging at his polyester necktie. He hated any occasion when he had to put on his dress blues, especially this early in the morning. He sighed and glanced at Porthos, who was on his phone, busy checking the Orioles score from the night before.

"Why does Treville insist on us wearing our class A's to interview the applicants for the open spot on our CCATT team? I would kill to be in scrubs…or even a flight suit right now."

"Ah, but then you wouldn't have gotten the look you just did from the female Senior Airman that ushered us into the room," murmured Aramis, raising an eyebrow at his friend. "She obviously thought **you** cut a fine figure in your blues."

Athos rolled his eyes. "Come on, Aramis! She is probably not even out of her teens…plus she's enlisted. You know the regulations—it was drilled into us at Officers' Training School. _Air Force policy states the following: Officers will not form personal relationships with enlisted members on or off duty._ "

"I was not necessarily suggesting you form a personal relationship with the young woman at the door. I am just suggesting that it is high time you formed a relationship with **someone**."

Athos knew his friend meant well, but the topic of relationships grated on his nerves. He then thought of the kitten, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, as a matter of fact, there is a lady I am cultivating at this very moment."

" **Really**?" Aramis perked up instantly. "Dude, we need details. Have you known her long?"

"Not too long...I actually met her several weeks ago after she was rescued from a storm drain during a flash flood."

Porthos' eyes went round with shock. "A patient? Athos, **please** tell me you aren't pursuing someone you operated on. I never pegged you for the stalker type."

He chuckled. "No, she wasn't my patient…at least, not officially."

"Ok, you're really not making sense," said Porthos slowly, fixing his gaze on Athos. "Explain yourself."

"It's really quite simple. Remember the heavy rains last month? Well, she got caught in the flooding, and I came along at just the right time."

A shrewd, but approving, look spread across Aramis' face. "Let me guess…you took her to the nearest ER and hovered over her like her personal guardian angel until she was out of danger. Now, she cannot take her eyes off the moody, charismatic surgeon who saved her life."

"Close enough." Athos' blue eyes flickered with amusement for an instant, then became impassive again.

"I have to hand it to you, my friend. I had **no idea** you had a woman on the side. How serious is it?"

"Well…" Athos hesitated, then the temptation to string his friends along become too much. "She **has** spent several nights with me in the call room."

Porthos, who had just taken a sip of coffee from his paper cup, nearly spit it across the table. " **What**? You cannot be serious!"

A gleam came into Aramis' eye. "Athos, you devil! If you keep this up, she will be moving in with you by the end of the month!"

Athos coolly adjusted the papers in front of him. "All I will say is that there **have** been some preliminary discussions."

Aramis and Porthos stared at him, unsure what to make of this. They had known Athos for over two years now, and he had never had a girlfriend during that time. All he had said when the subject was broached was that there had been a special woman once…but she had died.

The memories clearly still haunted him. They had learned from experience that there were nights he just wanted to be left alone with a bottle of whisky and the ghosts of his past. On most of those occasions, Porthos and Aramis were able to steer him towards their favorite off-base bar, the Drop Zone, thus allowing them to keep an eye on him. Last night, however, he had somehow eluded them.

Porthos had suspected Athos had spent the night with a shot glass in his hand, and the idea that his comrade had instead possibly been curled up in bed with a lovely young woman was hard to imagine. He shook his head, trying to picture Athos slow dancing with his date to soft jazz music in the center of his sparsely furnished studio apartment. "You are **definitely** giving us the low-down after hockey tonight."

"That is, if we ever make it," cut in Aramis, looking at his watch. "I have a vascular case starting in the OR in 30 minutes, and if I don't have the central line in place in 10 minutes, Exton will make me buy her coffee...and she has expensive tastes. No cafeteria 30 cent paper cup for her."

"She **does** like to start on time," observed Athos, knowing that the well-liked vascular surgeon was a stickler for punctuality. He looked up at the clock. "And this Captain…d'Artagnan?...is not impressing me with his timekeeping skills. In fact, he is already 15 minutes late. I say we move on."

"Works for me," replied Porthos cheerfully.

Aramis stood up. "Until later, gentlemen."

At that moment, the door to the conference room burst open, and a young man, breathing heavily, introduced himself as he gasped for air. "Captain d'Artagnan... I'm... here for...the CCATT interview."

He was dressed in dark jeans, black boots, and a badly wrinkled maroon button-down sheet that smelled of smoke. When properly groomed, he was likely handsome in a dark-eyed, brooding, Mediterranean sort of way. However, at the moment, his hair was unkempt, and he had quite obviously not showered.

"We're done here," muttered Athos, picking up his file and preparing to leave.

The young man drew himself up. "I'm here to talk to Lieutenant Colonel Athos. Is that you?" His voice, challenging and cocky, reverberated off the panelled walls.

The trauma surgeon's steely eyes came to rest on d'Artagnan. "I believe you meant to say— **Sir** , I am here to report to Lt. Col. Athos for my interview—for which I am thirty minutes late… **and** most unsuitably dressed."

"It's not my fault!" protested the younger officer. "I...I…"

"Yes?" inquired Aramis, crossing his arms with a smirk. He was thoroughly enjoying the sight of someone else being under the uncomfortable scrutiny of a superior for once.

"Well, I…"

"Was out at the bars all night and am badly hungover?" supplied Porthos helpfully.

"Porthos!" Aramis clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "He **obviously** is straight out of a civilian training program. He probably doesn't even know how to salute, let alone put on a uniform. Go easy on him." He placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and said consolingly, "When you learn how things are done here, and have a few years of military medical experience, you can always try again Good luck with your career." He looked up at Porthos and Athos. "North Alexandria Ice Rink, 8 o' clock tonight?"

Athos nodded, and offered a ghost of a smile at the anesthesiologist. "Be ready. I've been training." He passed by and exited the room, Aramis following him.

" **That's it?** " d'Artagnan exploded. "No one's even going to give me a chance? I just finished a fellowship at Baltimore Shock Trauma in orthopaedics and have a review on gunshot wounds to the extremities that's been accepted for publication by the New England Journal of Medicine! I could be an invaluable asset to your team!"

Porthos lifted an eyebrow and grinned. "Cocky little bugger, aren't you? Better luck next time, Captain." With that, he left d'Artagnan standing in the conference room, alone with the sinking realization that he had would never get a second chance to make a first impression.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The day had been a whirlwind of activity. Friday was often one of the busiest days in the emergency room, and Athos had spent four grueling hours operating on a twenty eight year old male whose vehicle had been hit head on by a drunk driver. The force of the impact had caused lacerations to the liver and had severed the pancreatic duct, which was always a technically challenging repair. The patient had been in shock when he had rolled into operating room, and Athos, quickly scrubbing and donning his surgical gown and gloves, had been relieved to see Aramis in charge of the anesthesia.

When Athos had walked into ICU thirty minutes after the surgery, he had sighted Porthos adjusting the settings on his patient's ventilator. Leaning against the railings of the bed, the big man had watched the tracings on the monitor until he was finally satisfied the patient was stable.

"Nice job," he commented when Athos entered the room, his eyes going immediately to the large row of staples on the man's abdomen. "Aramis told me he coded twice during the first hour in the OR"

"So he did," replied Athos absently, his eyes focusing on the wedding ring on his patient's finger. "Have you seen his wife?"

"She just left—had to pick up her son from daycare. They just moved here from France two weeks ago, and don't know a soul. Serge has taken her under his wing, though." Porthos nodded at the male nurse who was efficiently switching out several IV drips.

Athos smiled. "You're a good man, Serge."

"I try," he replied briefly, juggling a pair of scissors and some surgical tape. "Hey, if you and Dr. Porthos are hungry, I made some veal scallopini before I came in for my shift. It's warming on top of the stove in the break room."

Porthos' stomach reflexively rumbled. Serge's Friday night dinners for his ICU co-workers were legendary. "Pumpkin chocolate cheesecake?" he asked hopefully.

The nurse shook his head, his long grey braid slapping against his back. "You're out of luck. That was polished off thirty minutes ago."

"And **we** have a practice at the rink in 45 minutes," added Athos warningly. "We've got to go, Porthos…unless you want that scallopini slowing you down."

"Hell, no," answered Porthos, then lowered his voice. "Serge, can you save some for me? Maybe hide it in the back of the fridge?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

An hour later, the Air Force team was practicing at the North Alexandria Ice Rink. As it was a Friday night in the middle of summer, they had the ice to themselves. The team was comprised of six of the medical staff, all of whom, with the exception of Porthos, had played in a recreational league in college or medical school. Treville, who served as their unofficial coach, smiled as he watched Porthos effortlessly skate around the ice, practicing his passing skills with Aramis.

Porthos was a natural athlete, but had grown up poverty-stricken on the tough streets of Baltimore. His single mother had died when he was five, and he had shuttled in and out of foster homes for years, some adequate, others not. Colonel (then Captain) Treville-had run a weekend camp one summer for underprivileged high school boys interested in science. Porthos' poise and intellect had caught his attention, and Treville had become an unofficial Big Brother to the gangly teenager. He had spent hours talking to Porthos about his future, and had been instrumental in encouraging the boy to apply to colleges that he had thought out of his reach. When Porthos had received a full scholarship to Johns Hopkins, no one had been prouder than Treville. He had graduated magna cum laude, then won an Air Force scholarship to the medical school at Hopkins. A dozen years later, he was now working side-by-side with his mentor.

Porthos thought the world of Treville, but when the colonel had approached him two years ago in order to recruit him for the hockey team, he had flatly refused. "Colonel, there is no way I am makin' a fool out of myself. I'm happy to play football, basketball, shuffleboard, you name it—but I draw the line at skating."

Treville had backed off, but had bided his time while he contemplated another strategy. When he had made the acquaintance of the new skating instructor at the rink, a young widow by the name of Alice, a plan had formed in Treville's mind. He had convinced Porthos to come to the rink, ostensibly just to watch a practice, but had made sure that Alice would be there that evening. When she finished her 6 and 7 year old class, Treville had gone over to say hello.

Casually leaning against the railing of the rink, he had looked at her approvingly. "You have quite a way with the kids."

"I've always loved children," she had answered softly, twisting the wedding ring that still graced her left hand. Her husband had been killed by an IED in Afghanistan two years prior. "You know, I was pregnant when John was killed….but the shock caused me to miscarry."

"I'm so sorry." Treville's heart went out to the woman, and he wondered how she had found the strength to go on.

"So am I," she whispered, her eyes misting. She cleared her throat, and put on a brave smile. "But enough of the past. What are you up to tonight?"

"Actually, I have a favor to ask." Treville lowered his voice. "Do you see that tall, rather intimidating, dark-haired man sitting half-way up the bleachers?"

Her eyes flicked past the Colonel for just an instant. "The one who clearly would like to be a part of what's going on?" Porthos was intently following the action on the ice, calling out encouragement to his comrades from the stands.

"That's him. Only problem is…he doesn't know how to skate, and…."

"Is too embarrassed to learn at his age?" filled in Alice with a smile. "I know the type. I taught Adult Never-Ever lessons for two years in North Dakota. Let me go and try to break the ice, so to speak."

Within 15 minutes, Alice had coaxed Porthos on to a back rink, and by the end of the night, he was able to make a full lap around the rink without falling down. As his skill on skates had rapidly progressed, a romance had blossomed. However, Alice had ended it after several months, declaring tearfully that she could not risk her heart with another military man.

Porthos had been devastated, but had channeled his sorrow into improving his hockey skills, and was now a formidable defenseman. He was the ideal combination for the position-a tough, physical player who also was gifted at handling the puck.

Athos, alone at the far end of the ice, was practicing his wrist shot, relentlessly hitting puck after puck into the net. Treville's mobile suddenly shrilled, and he switched it on. "Acute MI? I'm on my way."

"Heart attack?" guessed Aramis, who had just zoomed up to the railing. Treville was an interventional cardiologist, and was often called in at all hours of the night in order to place stents in the arteries of heart attack victims.

"Civilian emergency in cardiogenic shock," he replied, then yelled, "Tommy! We've got an acute! Let's go!" The head cardiac cath lab tech, who was the goalie, was already taking off his mask, and the two of them hurried out of the rink.

Aramis sighed. "Max is with his son at swim meet, and Nils had a late admission to work up."

"Guess it's just us, then," grinned Porthos. "You two confident enough to play two on one against me? I'll even let you have the puck first."

The lights in the bleachers dimmed, signalling 30 minutes before the rink shut down for the night.

Suddenly, a voice rang out from the far end of the rink. "I'm looking for a man named Athos."

The surgeon, still drilling shots into the net, stopped, and turned. "You've found him," he said coolly, then resumed his stick work.

"Really? Well then, I would hope he would have the guts to turn around and face the man whom he wouldn't even deign to give the time of day to earlier."

Athos slapped the puck savagely, then skated around the back of the net and headed for the middle of the ice, where he stopped. "Captain d'Artagnan. It seems as if you view the events of earlier today through the prism of your own—very poor, I might say-attitude."

The younger man stepped onto the ice, his blades slicing across the frozen surface until he came to a halt directly in front of Athos.

"And it seems as if **you** have never made a mistake in your life, Colonel. I was caught up in events last night which were beyond my control. You can think whatever you want, but I assure you that I take my position as an orthopaedic surgeon very seriously. I may be fresh out of training, but you would be foolish to dismiss me without a giving me a chance. That's all I'm asking for…a chance to show you what I can do."

Aramis glanced at his friend, who stood staring frostily at the newcomer. "Kid's got a point, Athos," he muttered.

"I've played a little hockey," the brash voice continued on. _He's as confident as ever,_ thought Porthos, marveling at his poise. "How about I play against the three of you?"

Porthos' booming laugh echoed through the cold air. "Tempting...but I'd hate to see our new orthopod wonder boy in a cast before he ever gets the chance to pick up a scalpel."

"If you want to talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk," came d'Artagnan's arrogant response. His stick snaked out suddenly and stole the puck from Athos, and he began to angle towards the side of the rink. "I score, you give me another chance."

"And if you don't?" intoned Athos, slowly following him.

"You'll still regret not picking me. But at least I'll have had a chance to teach you a lesson."

Athos' blue eyes blazed in fury. He drove his shoulder into d'Artagnan, sending him into the boards and the puck spinning out into the center of the ice. The younger man cursed under his breath, and regained his balance quickly, darting after the puck. He was wiry and fast, and the game quickly became aggressive, with the only sounds heard being the crash of bodies against the boards and the hiss of skates on the ice.

The persistence of the newcomer won grudging admiration from his three opponents, as he doggedly got up each time Porthos slammed him to the ice with a body check, and continued to fight tooth and nail for possession of the puck. When he finally regained possession, he found himself with an open line to the goal, and hit a dizzyingly fast slapshot that tore into the netting. He raised his stick and circled the net, then came to a stop.

Athos stared at him, then gave him a curt nod. "Treville's conference room, Monday at 0600. Dress blues. If you are one second late, you're done."

He skated off the ice, and d'Artagnan headed off in the other direction. Aramis glanced at Porthos, his eyes dancing. "Now **that's** the way to make an entrance. Fifty bucks says the boy wonder makes the cut."

* * *

 **Many thanks to my hockey consultant...you know who you are, CB!**

 **If you have a moment, let me know what you thought.**

 **Next time...d'Artagnan gets a second chance, while Adele makes a fatal error.**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER IV**

Adele stood in front of the lingerie drawer in her huge walk in closet, her fingers caressing the barrel of the pistol that Aramis had left behind. She had succeeded in secreting it behind a stack of her bras, and doubted that Richelieu would ever have occasion to search that particular drawer. He was jealous almost to the point of obsession, and she had found him going through her email on more than one occasion. Luckily, she was clever enough to have Aramis listed in her phone as "Renee H." Their texts were only ever what could be interpreted as mundane conversation. However, they had a coded meaning that she had committed to heart within 24 hours of Aramis proposing a system for their messaging.

Aramis. He was so entirely different from Richelieu…kind, honest, and thoughtful. She closed her eyes for just an instant, remembering their conversation the night before. "I'm worried about you, Adele," he had said, kissing her hand as he regarded her thoughtfully, his warm brown eyes showing his concern. "Richelieu is a dangerous man. There are rumors that his wife's death last year was no accident."

The uncertainty that she always felt whenever the Colonel's late wife was mentioned had hit her all over again, and she had felt a stab of fear. "Aramis, I'm sure those are just rumors..how could a man that high up in military intelligence cover up the murder of his wife?"

 _You have no idea, Adele_ , he had thought darkly.

"A penny for your thoughts, my dear."

Startled, she turned to see Armand a mere five feet away from her, and shut the drawer. He was leaning against one of the built in cabinets that housed her enormous shoe collection, staring at her with a look that she found almost predatory. "Armand! I didn't even hear you come in."

"Yes, you were miles away, apparently. Anticipating the show in Milan next week?"

She smiled, and went to him, winding her arms around his waist. "You are always so good at reading my thoughts."

"I like to think so," he replied softly, his eyes unreadable. "It's getting late. Why don't you go and take a shower? I've ordered some sushi…we might as well be comfortable while we eat."

"That sounds lovely," she murmured, kissing his neck while praying that he had not seen her with the firearm. "I won't be long." Slipping past him, she padded into the adjoining bathroom and shut the door. Richelieu listened for the sound of running water, and once he had heard it, moved over to the drawer that Adele had had open when he had caught her unawares.

Sliding it open cautiously, he searched through the chaos of delicate bras and lacy bottoms in every shade imaginable, many of which he could not recall ever having seen. A low growl found its way to his throat when his fingers brushed against a metallic object. Easing a peach coloured camisole to the side, he felt a surge of uncontrollable rage when he uncovered a pistol that had a serial number which was immediately identifiable to him as Air Force issue. Even worse, it was without doubt that of a Pararescueman. Richelieu cursed, and immediately pulled out his secure Blackberry Storm, snapping a photo of the serial number.

Punching in a number, he sent the picture via encrypted text to an unknown number. He waited thirty seconds, then dialed the same digits.

"You got the picture? You have ten minutes…no more…to get me the name and unit of the officer associated with that weapon. I'll be expecting a call by 2130." He hung up, and placed the garments back in place, then closed the drawer shut. Anger coursed through every vein of his body. She was just like his late wife….seemingly faithful, but carrying on a secret affair behind his back, probably with a muscle-bound simpleton half his age. He would make sure she paid for her deception.

When she emerged into the living room ten minutes later, clad in white silk pajamas, he smiled at her as he drained his second glass of wine. "I've a surprise for you, darling," he murmured, pulling her onto his lap. "The farmhouse remodelling is done…two weeks ahead of schedule. How about we drive out to Middleburg tomorrow and spend the night? Unless you have more pressing plans, of course." His eyes focused on her face, waiting for her response.

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea they would be done early! You are a master at keeping secrets, darling!"

"I so enjoy seeing the astonished look on your face whenever I am able to surprise you. If you are very, very good," he muttered, nuzzling the curve of her neck, "I may have something very special in store for you tomorrow night."

xxxx

Driving home from the ice rink, Athos realized that he had left the kitten without more than a day's worth of food and water _. I've obviously forgotten what it's like to have to think about anyone other than myself._ _I can't leave her to her own devices all weekend_. He had been looking forward to a weekend without call, without a glimpse of the Joint Military Medical Center's peeling walls. Sighing _,_ he maneuvered his Lexus over to take the next exit. Taking a left at the light, he got back on the highway and headed back to the hospital.

An hour and a half later, he arrived back at his apartment, juggling kitten, litter box, and a bag of purchases from PetSmart. As he unlocked the door, the kitten mewed loudly.

"Welcome to your new home," he muttered, then nudged the door open with his foot. Leaping out of his arms, the kitten ran over to the long black couch and lightly leaped up onto the cushion. Settling down on the wool blanket he'd bought in Scotland on his honeymoon, she promptly began to doze.

 _Why do I still have that damn blanket?_ Staring at the grey and red plaid, he knew the answer before he had even finished asking the question. _Because even though you need to forget her, a part of you still wants to remember_. He dropped the armful of pet supplies on the floor and slid on to the couch next to the kitten, kicking his shoes off. His hand was on the remote control within seconds, and he shoved a pillow behind his head as he stretched out on the scuffed faux leather. He flipped through a series of channels, then stopped.

" _Lonesome Dove_ ," he murmured. "Haven't seen that in…oh, almost three months?" His eye settled on the kitten as she stretched, then stepped on to his leg and walked up to his chest with all the grace of a practiced ballerina. She curled up just under his chin, her fur tickling his face.

"You know, if I was stranded on a desert island, this is the DVD I'd bring with me." The kitten purred in response, her throat vibrating against his chest. He suddenly realized he felt more relaxed than he had in a week.

"Maybe you're meant to be my good luck charm." He stroked her fur, eliciting a deeper hum from the small animal. Turning his head towards the television, he lost himself in the familiar story. He had read Larry McMurtry's novel twice, and had watched the miniseries probably two dozen times. Even so, watching each scene was like rediscovering an old friend. He found himself reciting many of the lines from memory, slowly become drowsy. On the screen, he heard Woodrow McCall ask Po Campo, "How do I know you won't start missin' your wife after about five miles and want to quit?"

Without missing a beat, Athos muttered, "My wife is in hell, where I sent her," and promptly fell into a troubled sleep.

xxxxxxxx

The slimy walls of the prison corridor smelled of urine and blood. A high pitched scream echoed from one of the cells he passed, then suddenly ceased. "How much farther?" he murmured in Farsi to the guard walking next to him.

"You Americans need to learn the meaning of patience," the man replied in the same language, his voice curt as they turned a corner and stopped in front of a metal door."I didn't go to all the trouble of getting you in here in order to get us both killed." He inserted a large key in the lock, and the door clicked open. Athos made to push past the guard, but the man stopped him with a hand to the chest. "You have five minutes. When the time is up, I'll knock twice, quickly. You have ten seconds to answer me back in the same way. If you don't, you will share her fate."

"Understood."

The man looked over his shoulder, then motioned for Athos to go in. As the door swung shut, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A thin shaft of light managed to pass through the tiny barred window that was directly opposite the door. It was no more than four inches in diameter—just enough to give condemned prisoners a tantalizing glimpse of the night sky.

"This is a new look for you." Even on death row, she somehow managed to make even the most mundane of comments sound sultry. "We never did get around to playing guard and prisoner. Are you here to fulfill a fantasy?"

He remained silent for an few seconds, fighting his emotions, then finally spoke. "Why did you do it?" he asked, staring at the grey clouds scudding past the window.

"Do what?"

"Do you **ever** stop pretending to be the innocent? You know **exactly** what I mean. You killed Thomas. In cold blood."

"If you want to believe that, go ahead-but I will hang for a crime I didn't commit. Apparently sooner rather than later. It's amazing how everything in Iran moves at a snail's pace…meals, concerts, the line at the market. But executions-now that's a different story. The wheels of justice turn at warp speed around here."

Athos suddenly felt very weary. "All I want to know is why. Was he about to turn you in? Had he found out that everything you had ever told me about your past was a lie?"

A bitter laugh came from the darkness. "I doubt I'm the only person ever to have embellished his or her life story."

" **Embellished**. That's what you call it?! Birthplace? San Francisco. Real answer? Des Moines. Occupation? Public relations, yoga instructor on the side. Real answer? Field operative for the CIA...oh, and let's not forget probably a double agent for whomever is bidding the highest this month. Reason for marrying me? Love. Real answer?"

The question hung in the air.

"I loved you, Athos."

"Then **why**? Why kill my brother in cold blood?"

"Thomas was not the man you thought he was! He was funneling arms to a splinter group of Al Qaeda. There were lives at risk, Athos…innocent lives! When I realized what was going on, I waited for a day or two, hoping that he would come to me and confess. The night I confronted him, he was drunk. When I told him he had given me no choice but to turn him in, he pulled out a gun. There was a struggle, and somehow the trigger was pulled." She halted for an instant, then continued. "The next thing I knew, he was dead."

Athos raised his eyes to hers. "So if **he** was the illegal arms dealer, why were there several crates of weapons found in the basement of **your** rental house?"

"Don't you see?!" Her voice was pleading now. "He set me up! That was his plan all along…to make the maximum profit he could, then frame **me** for arms smuggling. Athos, you have to believe me!"

He looked away. "Thomas sent me an encrypted, coded email."

"You can't possibly…"

"He told me **everything** , Anne! Your whole life has been layer upon layer of lies. Thomas never drank a drop of alcohol in his life. Couldn't stand the stuff. Ironic, isn't it, given my habits? So forgive me if I refuse to believe he was drunk that night."

"Toxicology reports would confirm my story..if you have the guts to run the tests."

"Too late. His body was somehow mistakenly cremated during the layover at Heathrow. I'm sure you have no idea how that might have happened."

"Of course not! Athos, I would never lie to you about something like this!"

Two knocks were heard at the door, and he moved quickly to answer in like fashion. "Goodbye, Anne." The door opened, and he left, knowing that in a matter of hours, the woman he had loved more than life itself would be dead.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed! Many thanks to all who have reviewed and favorited! To the guests (Clara, CB, AF, Frankie, Sara)...thank you so much for your kind words...hopefully the next update will come a bit sooner!**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER V**

Saturday morning was sunny and unusually cool for the Virginia countryside in July. Richelieu and Adele had left DC before 0700 in order to beat the traffic. As he pulled the silver BMW convertible into the long, winding driveway that led to the farmhouse, Richelieu glanced at his watch.

"We made good time. It's just 8 o'clock now."

"It looks as if someone is waiting for us." Adele shaded her eyes from the sun and squinted at the front step of the house.

"They're here already! Excellent!" Armand exclaimed, obviously delighted.

Adele saw a middle aged man, tall and distinguished, standing by the side of a woman who appeared to be around her own age. The woman was dressed in an immaculate blue suit, and was holding a leather portfolio.

"Who are they?"

"Ross and Karen Shipman. The interior designers I engaged."

"And here I thought all the ideas for the renovation had come from you," she said, giving him a teasing smile. "Little did I know you had a trick like this up your sleeve! I can't wait to see what you have in store for me!"

"I'm anxious to see your reaction, my dear." He guided the car to a stop and stepped out, circling around the back to open Adele's door for her.

"Good morning, Armand. I see Adele is just as beautiful as you described. I'm Ross Shipman," said the man, extending his hand to Adele with a friendly smile. "And this is my wife Karen."

"Delighted to meet you both. I must admit, this was all quite a surprise! I had no idea."

"Armand is all about the unexpected," Ross replied easily. "Shall we go in? After you, ladies."

Karen opened the door and motioned for Adele to step in ahead of her. As the model entered the foyer, Ross called, "Take the first left and go into the bedroom. It was designed with you in mind."

Armand was not the most thoughtful of lovers, and Adele was touched that he had thought of her while planning out their bedroom. She took in a deep breath, then walked into the room, gasping in pleasure at the soft blue tint of the walls. "My favorite color! You didn't…"

Her words were cut off by a sack suddenly being thrown over her head. She was shoved onto the bed, screaming as a heavy body pinned her to the mattress.

"Do exactly what I say, and I won't blow your brains out." Ross Shipman's pleasant voice had turned into a snarl as the barrel of a pistol was placed against her temple.

"Armand!" she cried out.

"Shut up!" She had never heard that tone of voice from Richelieu before, and truly began to panic.

"You must think I am stupid."

"I don't! I-"

"I TOLD you to SHUT UP!"

She heard him breathing heavily, struggling to contain his temper. Her hood was ripped off, and she was turned over to face him. Ross sat by her side, his weapon pressed still against her head.

The Colonel shook his head. " Adele, you have broken my heart. I thought you were different, but you are just like **her**. Did you really think you could get away with cheating on me?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she choked out, trying to sound confident, but failing miserably.

Richelieu produced a pistol from his jacket and held it up. "Look familiar? Don't tell me no, because I found it in your lingerie drawer. It belongs to Major Aramis d'Herblay, a CCATT physician with the PJs. You set your sights high this time, Adele…a doctor who is also Special Forces. Well done."

"It's not true…we're not having an affair! I swear!"

He stared at her. "Are you willing to take a polygraph? With a dose of sodium thiopental—truth serum—beforehand?"

"Yes! I'll do anything!" She was sobbing now. "I would never lie to you!"

"I would hope not." His voice was soft. He drew out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on, then produced a syringe and alcohol swab from a small leather case. "This will only hurt for an instant."

She tensed as the cold alcohol swab slid across her left upper arm, then felt the needle plunge into her flesh. Choking back a cry, Adele buried her face in the comforter. _This will all be over soon. I can pass any polygraph he throws at me. I wasn't cheating with Aramis…I was just living a lie every time I slept with Armand._

Her body began to relax almost immediately.

"How do you feel?" Richelieu rolled her over to face him. She looked up at him, and saw that his face has melted into a shapeless mound of flesh. Her heart began to race, and an intense panic flooded through her whole body. "What have you given me?"

"Adele, Adele." The words were gentle and caressing. "I sensed you had an addiction problem, but I had no idea how bad it was. And ketamine—it's a very dangerous substance-highly addictive. No doubt one of your model friends introduced you to it."

Her breathing began to slow, and she felt as if all energy was draining out of her body. "A drug? You gave me something addictive? Are you trying to get me hooked? Is that your plan?"

"Oh, you are already hooked, Adele. So much so that you overdosed when I was out to breakfast with Ross and Karen. You had begged off, saying you had a headache, and when we came home, we found you dead, the syringe of ketamine in your hand."

Adele began to feel as if she was suffocating. "Why are you doing this?! Is it because of Aramis?"

"You'll be dead in two minutes. You might as well tell me the truth."

She stared at him as her vision began to darken. "The truth? I love Aramis! Do you hear me? I….love…." she took one more ragged breath, then whispered "Aramis.." and lapsed into unconsciousness. Sixty seconds later, her heart stopped beating, and she was dead.

"Well, that was an ugly business," murmured Armand, He took out another tube filled with ketamine and squirted the contents onto a gauze pad, then placed the syringe in Adele's hand, curling her fingers around it. Stripping off his gloves, he packed them in the leather case, then turned to his comrades. "I'm ready for breakfast. Who's hungry? My treat."

xxxxxxxxx

Monday morning came much too soon. By 0600, Aramis was in the ICU, doing a preop evaluation on a patient about to go to the OR for a perforated gastric ulcer. His phone suddenly chirped with the alert that was used only for CCATT missions. From across the unit, he heard Porthos' phone sound off as well.

"Flight line, 0615. Downed fighter pilot, Chesapeake Bay. Condition unknown."

"CCATT alert," called Porthos. Aramis nodded, and picked up his phone. "Eric, I've got a CCATT mission. Can you do my ICU case? Patient's name is Gresworth, bed 4. Perforated ulcer. I've done the preop, they're picking up for the OR now. Thanks, man. I owe you."

Switching off his phone, he headed for the door to the ICU, where Porthos was already waiting impatiently. Punching the button to open the automatic door, the big man set off at a jog down the hall, Aramis keeping pace with him. "Our flight suits are still in the locker room, right?"

"That's what Treville said," muttered Porthos. Swiping his ID badge to get into the physicians' locker room, he saw Athos already changing into his flight suit. The surgeon nodded towards three flight suits laid out on a bench. As they began to change, Porthos stared at the last flight suit, which had an empty space for the name patch. "Why is there an extra one?"

Athos averted his eyes. "It appears as though we have a ride-along today."

Aramis groaned. "No…please tell me it's not some actor prepping for a film. The last one was just incredibly painful. What was his name?"

"Jeremy Myers?" supplied Porthos helpfully.

"Yeah, that's him. The dude plays all these action heroes, and all he did was complain about the fact that we hadn't stocked his favorite flavor of Pellegrino…and that no one was willing to screen his texts for him. It's not as if we were busy or anything…just trying to resuscitate a badly burned airman after an accident on the flight line. When Adele couldn't stop talking about how hot he was in "Hostage" all I could think of was— _you have no idea how annoying he is_."

"No, it's not an actor," replied Athos. "Think of someone who has been more of a recent irritant."

At that moment, d'Artagnan burst through the door of the locker room, a broad grin on his face. "Ready to rock and roll?"

Athos gave him an icy stare. "Captain, this is not a Top Gun spinoff."

"Does this mean my call sign can't be Maverick?" asked d'Artagnan, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"It means that you should remember you are here to observe, not participate. So I would appreciate you keeping all non-essential communication to a minimum…to include pop culture references."

He strode out of the locker room, a slightly deflated d'Artagnan trailing behind.

Porthos grinned at Aramis. "This is gonna be fun."

Less than five minutes later, they were climbing into the Osprey. D'Artagnan had read about the unique tilt-rotor design of the aircraft, but seeing up close allowed him to appreciate the genius of its construction. The rotors allowed the Osprey to take off and land vertically like a helicopter, but also fly at speeds comparable to fixed-wing aircraft. This capability made it ideal for supporting special operations, when infiltrating behind enemy lines and rescuing the injured as quickly as possible was paramount.

"The guy who flies this must be a real testosterone junkie," commented d'Artagnan as they climbed into the plane. "Maybe we should recruit him for the hockey team."

A quiet laugh came from the cockpit, and a lilting voice with an unusual French accent followed. "Maybe you should not assume that male genitalia is required in order to fly."

Porthos whooped with laughter. "Angelique, have I told you lately that I love you?"

The dark-skinned pilot, who looked to be all of 5 foot, 2 inches tall, smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. "Not in the past five minutes. You're slipping, Porthos."

"Captain Angelique Mosqueton, meet our newest mascot, Captain Charles d'Artagnan. I apologize for his lack of manners. He's still a bit rough around the edges." Porthos said with a wink.

"I am not in mood to hold hands today, gentlemen," she replied, concentrating as she turned back to the control panel, going through her pre-flight checklist. "So please keep the newbie under control. If he has to vomit, you know where the bags are."

"I've never thrown up on a plane in my life," scoffed d'Artagnan.

The same quiet laugh floated up from the cockpit again, and Porthos glanced at Aramis who was shaking his head.

"Now you've done it, pup. You've been warned. Angelique was first in her class at the Air Force Academy, and she plays to win." He called up to the cockpit,"Fifty bucks says he pukes before ten minutes go by."

"Make it one hundred…and five minutes."

"Confidence! I like that in a woman," murmured Aramis, eyes brightening as he belted himself into his jump seat

The corner of Athos' mouth quirked up in a small smile as he did likewise. The rotors suddenly roared into life, and d'Artagnan scrambled to get into his seat. Thirty seconds later, the aircraft lifted off, and swooped over the flight line, skimming over the treetops as it sharply banked to the right.

D'Artagnan's stomach dropped a bit, then settled as the aircraft leveled off. _I got this,_ he thought. _I can take anything she throws at me. After all, I've been on every roller coaster worth riding on the east coast._

No sooner was the thought out of his mind than the rotors pivoted 90 degrees into aircraft mode. In an instant, the Osprey climbed rapidly, then banked to the left over the ocean. As d'Artagnan saw the water slip by underneath him, he felt vaguely queasy once again. The aircraft picked up speed, then went through a series of dizzying climbs and turns that left him feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Porthos saw the look on his face, and thrust an airsickness bag into his hands. "I doubt you'll need it," he muttered, straight-faced. "But you never know. If you can hold off for another few minutes, though, I'll split my winnings with you."

"I heard that!" called out Angelique. "We're close to where the pilot's distress signal was sent from. I'm going low. Hold onto your hats!" The Osprey picked up speed and dropped over the ocean, and d'Artagnan promptly vomited into the bag.

"Damn!" swore Porthos. "You're merciless, Angelique. He threw up quicker than the actor did."

"Jeremy Myers?" She snorted. "He was worthless. Not sure this one's any better…especially if an actor can hold his cookies longer." Her eyes were busy scanning the horizon, and she suddenly tensed as she saw a bright orange flare in the water. "There he is."

Athos peered out the window. "The waves are about three feet. Porthos, think you can manage?"

"Athos, please." Porthos was already stripping off his flight suit, revealing his neoprene wetsuit. Pulling on a pair of goggles, he nodded, and Athos slid open the side door as Angelique positioned the craft over the downed pilot. Giving Athos a thumbs up, Porthos jumped. The hoist he would need to attach to the pilot was quickly winched down by Aramis. The big man cut through the water to the injured man with a few swift strokes. Quickly assessing him, he motioned for a rescue litter, which was lowered down within seconds. Immobilizing the spine as best he could, Porthos slid the pilot onto the board, then strapped him in and attached the hoist to it. He gave the thumbs up, and the litter was lifted up. Once it was safely inside, the hoist was dropped back down to Porthos, and he was pulled up.

Aramis had already hooked the patient up to a cardiac monitor, and was preparing to intubate. The pilot was gasping shallowly and was barely conscious. Glancing at the name patch on the man's flight suit, the anesthesiologist said, "Lieutenant Diaz, I'm Captain d'Herblay. I'm going to make it easier for you to breathe, and to do that, I need to place a special tube in your throat. I'll give you some medicine first to make you sleepy, so you will be comfortable."

"Rapid sequence induction," he muttered to Athos. "Cricoid pressure, if you please."

Glancing at the man's forearm, he was pleased to see that d'Artagnan, although somewhat green around the edges, had taken it upon himself to insert a large-bore IV. "Well done, Mav." He winked at the young man, then turned to his critical care collegue. "Porthos, 50 mcg of fentanyl IV, then can you please bag him to pre-oxygenate? D'Artagnan, etomidate 20 mg IV for induction. It's drawn up and labelled in my kit."

Seizing the portable medical kit, d'Artagnan administered the drug. "What do you want to use for a paralytic?"

"Succinylcholine, 150 mg IV push."

Thirty seconds later, the medication was in, and the patient's muscles relaxed as he was paralyzed.

As Athos held cricoid pressure, pushing on the ring of cartilage in the pilot's neck to prevent aspiration of stomach contents, Aramis smoothly slid the endotracheal tube into position. He secured it in place, then attached it to the portable ventilator. The man's chest began to rise and fall as his lungs filled and emptied.

"100% sat," called out Porthos. "But wait…. I don't like the looks of his rhythm. He's bradying down!"

As the pilot's heart rate slowed to the 30s, Aramis reached for a syringe of atropine to inject in order to speed the heart rate up.

"Third degree block! Aramis, the atropine, now!"

As he pushed the atropine into the IV, the monitor showed asystole as the heart rate went to 0.

"Begin CPR!" called out Athos, starting chest compressions.

"Shut the door! Let's get going!" shouted Angelique.

D'Artagnan dove for the lever and slid it shut. The Osprey shot forward, climbing rapidly as the team worked frantically to save the life of their patient.

* * *

 **I was inspired by surviving a long week at work, and wrote this in one go this morning, with little to no proofreading..so apologies for any typos. Your reviews brought a huge smile to my face for the last chapter...also thanks to guests Sarah, Sara, and Guest for posting reviews. I especially loved the Guest review that christened Athos "the modern Renaissance Man: hockey player, cat-lover, McMurtry fan, AND Farsi speaker!"**

 **A high-five to those who picked up on the allusion to the BAFTA "60 Seconds with Tom Burke" video...I admit I've watched it more than once. (LadyCavil, I hear you laughing...okay, more like 100 times). If you've seen it, you'll understand why. ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER VI**

* * *

"Hold CPR! I've got a pulse!" Porthos sighed in relief, his fingers pressed against the pilot's carotid artery. "Hand me the rewarming blanket, d'Artagnan—it's to your left in the orange pouch. I'm guessin' hypothermia is what caused his heart rate to drop like that. It may be 95 degrees outside, but the water in Chesapeake Bay is still freezin'."

"I think you're right," said Athos. "He has good breath sounds over both lung fields, so there's no pneumothorax. And as far as I can tell, he's not bleeding, although we won't know about internal injuries until we can do a CT. The sooner we raise his core temperature, the better."

Thirty minutes later, they wheeled Captain Diaz into the ICU. His temperature had already climbed to from 92 to 95 degrees, and Porthos was optimistic that he would make a full recovery. A quick trip to the CT scanner on the way to intensive care had confirmed that the pilot had no serious internal injuries.

Treville was at the nurses' station, just finishing a note on a heart attack patient he had treated earlier that day. He watched as Aramis signed off the CCATT mission report, laughing at a muttered comment from Porthos. Although Treville had been a group commander for several years now, he always dreaded the sort of conversation he was about to have with the anesthesiologist.

Aramis came over and perched on the long desk. "The ideal Monday morning mission. Good flying weather, no major trauma or difficult airway ... it even looks like we'll get a happy ending."

"That's good," replied Treville absently, then looked up. "I need to talk to you, Aramis."

The younger man tensed. It was completely out of character for his commander, who was usually eager to trade stories about the weekend, to be so serious on a Monday morning. "What's wrong, Colonel?"

As if sensing what was coming, the nurses and technicians melted into the rooms of their patients. Meanwhile, Athos and Porthos had gone into the break room to get some coffee and scavenge for any leftovers from Serge's Sunday afternoon baking.

"Why don't we go down to my office? We can have a bit of privacy there."

"Now I'm **really** worried. Why don't you just tell me what this is all about? Am I being benched for the next hockey game? Have I been drafted to work with failing medical students for the next six weeks? Wait, I know!" He groaned. "It's really happening, isn't it? My worst nightmare-I'm being reassigned to North Dakota! You promised you would block that!"

Treville took Aramis by the arm and led him to the "consultation room," which was typically used to deliver bad news to families about their loved ones. He closed the door, then leaned against it, his face grim. "Aramis, do you know a model named Adele Bessett?"

"Yes, we are-together-sort of. What's happened?"

"I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but she is dead."

The younger man paled. "No, it **can't** be true! I was just with her on Friday, and she was so full of life…so happy." Tears began to prick at his eyes, and he turned away. "How?" he asked, his voice dull.

"She was found with a nearly empty syringe of ketamine," replied Treville. He hesitated, then said, "Aramis, did you have any inkling that she-"

"She was **no addict**!" The anesthesiologist's voice was firm. "Adele **never** touched drugs. Her favorite cousin died of an overdose when at age 15. A glass of wine here and there, yes. But drugs—no." He turned, his face suddenly hardening. "Let me guess who found her— **Richelieu**."

"I don't know the exact circumstances, but Richelieu has sent two of his OSI men to take you in for questioning. They are waiting in my office as we speak."

" **Me**? Why?"

"He believes you to be the source of the ketamine. An anesthesiologist would have easy access to it, after all. It's not infrequently used in the operating room."

Aramis' eyes flashed fire. "Sir, you are well aware that **every** medication I give in this hospital is carefully tracked, especially the controlled substances. I have **never** abused my privileges in order to steal those kind of drugs, and I sure as hell would **not** give them to a woman I loved!"

 _So that's how it was_ , thought Treville, his heart sinking. Few details of Colonel Richelieu's personal life were known, other than the fact that his wife had died in a tragic car accident the year before. However, Treville had run into the OSI chief several weeks ago in a posh restaurant in Alexandria, The man had had an attractive redhead on his arm, and had introduced her as Adele. _Aramis, why must you always play with fire?_

 **"I** know that," said Treville quietly, putting a reassuring hand on the anesthesiologist's shoulder. "But I am afraid that Richelieu somehow suspects you of supplying her with ketamine from the hospital."

"And **I** suspect him of murdering her!"

"Aramis, that's a serious accusation. We're talking about a man who has just made the promotion list to General. He'll pin on his new rank within months...and he is a particular favorite of the President."

"Does Adele's life mean **nothing**?" Aramis' voice cracked. "I will go and see Richelieu, but I have some questions of my own for him." He made a move to reach for the door, but Treville stopped him.

"Promise me you'll be careful. Armand Richelieu is a dangerous man."

"I can't promise anything, sir…except that I'll do my best to prove who really killed Adele-and I suspect I'll be sitting across the desk from him within the hour."

xxxx

D'Artagnan walked out of the ICU, contemplating the rest of the items yet to be completed on his in-processing list, when he saw an attractive woman hovering outside the automatic door to the unit, holding what appeared to be a toy schnauzer in her arms. She looked up at him hopefully.

"Is it time for visitors' hours yet? My fiancé—Jacques Bonacieux—is in bed 2. I thought he would have already been moved out of ICU, but apparently there are no free beds on the intermediate care ward. I can tell he's feeling better-he's already called me twice to make sure I have his favorite iced coffee." She indicated a blue and red paper cup that she was balancing in one hand as she held the dog in her other. Her curly auburn hair was swept up in an attractive chignon, and her accent was vaguely French. "And his muse is waking up...he asked for his sketch pad."

"Let me help you," offered d'Artagnan, taking the dog from her. The animal wriggled in his arms, then proceeded to lick his face, barking enthusiastically.

"Thank you." She smiled, then shushed the dog. "Milo, that's quite enough."

"Umm…we don't often see many dogs in the ICU setting,"

"I'm sure you don't." He found himself smiling in return as he gazed into her warm brown eyes.

"So, his name is Milo?"

"Yes. Jacques spoils him terribly. We've been here for less than two weeks, and he has already enrolled Milo in a doggie daycare and found a masseuse to keep up his regimen of therapeutic massages. In fact, he was driving home from interviewing the masseuse when he was hit by a drunk driver. Thank God for Dr. de la Fère! The paramedics thought Jacques' chances were next to nil, but somehow Dr. de la Fère saved him. Now my man is back to his demanding, creative self."

D'Artagnan eyed the sketch pad. "Is he an architect? Graphic designer?"

She laughed. "No. Jacques is an artist—in every sense of the word. Brooding, a bit narcissistic, but brilliant. President Bourbon is a big fan of his work. In fact, he's talked about acquiring one of Jacques' paintings to hang in the Oval Office."

"Really? So I imagine your fiance must paint landscapes? Or is he a portrait artist?"

"Neither. His style is difficult to describe—it's **so** unique. I suppose you could say it is conceptual art. Jacques likes to challenge the idea of what makes something a work of art. He sees himself as a rebel, and wants his pieces to provoke discussion. He does performance and installation art as well. You may have heard of the short film _Day of the Soup Cans_? It's a documentary about a piece Jacques did at a Tesco grocery store in Birmingham last year."

"I must have missed that. What did it involve?"

"My fiancé considers it one of his greatest achievements. He has a mate who works at that particular Tesco, and he let Jacques into the store one Tuesday an hour before opening. Jacques went straight to the soup aisle—it was quite a large one-apparently people in Birmingham love their soup—and took every can off the shelf, then built a sort of slalom course with them right in the center of the aisle. When the store opened, people had to navigate around the soup cans in order to get down the aisle."

"So were the soup cans arranged in a special way that made it artistic?"

"That's what I thought he was aiming for, but Jacques is such a genius! He just sees the world differently than we do. The art was not the cans themselves, but the ebb and flow of the traffic around them…and the customer's reactions. The documentary didn't make it into the competition at Cannes, but there is a film festival in Richmond next month that we have high hopes for."

"That sounds….exciting. By the way, my name's d'Artagnan."

"Of Lupiac in Gascony?" she asked teasingly.

He sighed. "If I had five dollars for every time I've heard that over the years..."

"Well, he is the one of the most famous Frenchmen ever." Eyeing his flight suit, she said, "It seems as if you are a modern-day Musketeer yourself. Although I must say I prefer the 17th century uniform to a drab green one piece jumpsuit. I'm sorry, that was not very nice. My mother would be disappointed. I'm Constance, and I'm not always so rude."

He chuckled. "No offense taken." Glancing at the clock on the wall, he said, "Why don't you go in? I can watch Milo for a few minutes."

"Don't you have to go prevent a terrorist attack? Or save a life in the emergency room?"

Leaning over, he whispered conspiratorially, "I've already helped rescue a downed pilot from the ocean, so I've met my quota for heroic acts for the day."

"Well, if you're sure, that would be incredibly kind. Thank you." Giving him a grateful smile, she patted Milo. "None of your antics, now. D'Artagnan is doing a noble thing by agreeing to watch you."

As soon as she disappeared inside the ICU doors, the dog began wiggling in d'Artagnan's arms, whining to be let down. The doctor glanced around. "Great, no leash." He looked at the animal sternly. "If I let you down, do you promise to behave?"

Milo's soulful eyes were so appealing that d'Artagnan felt guilty for even having asked the question.

"Okay." He sighed, then walked into the ICU waiting room. It was empty except for a middle aged man crunched up on a small sofa, snoring loudly under a pink blanket emblazoned with images of Hello Kitty and her friends. Sitting down in one of the uncomfortable armchairs, he put the dog on the floor. "Now be a good boy and stay."

A second later, the dog sprinted off, making a beeline for the exit. He was halfway down the corridor before d'Artagnan had even managed to make it to the doorway. As the orthopaedic surgeon glanced down the hall, he saw the blurred figure of a small, black dog make a sharp right turn, then disappear.

"Great," he muttered. He took off at top speed after Milo, drawing a disapproving glance from a nurse carrying a clipboard.

As the erstwhile dogminder negotiated the corner, he ran smack into a small cart loaded with breakfast trays, knocking a dining services employee to the ground.

"Sorry!" He went to help the grizzled, paunchy man up, but was waved off with a growl. "Stay the hell away from me, flyboy! You just caused me to throw my back out again!"

A series of frantic barks were heard from further down the hall, and d'Artagnan sped off again. An X-ray technician came into sight, trying to keep Milo from attacking the machine she was pushing.

"Milo!" bellowed d'Artagnan. The dog stopped in mid-bark and stared at him, then reversed direction and ran into an elevator, slipping through the doors just before they closed. He disappeared from sight, wagging his tail as if to taunt the surgeon.

"No good deed goes unpunished," muttered d'Artagnan, and ran for the stairwell.

xxxx

As Aramis and Treville headed out of the consultation room, they were confronted by four men wearing in dark suits, earpieces affixed to their ears.

The anesthesiologist glanced at his commander, who shook his head. _Not Richelieu's men._

"Colonel Treville? Major d'Herblay? Your presence is required back at the bedside of Captain Diaz. President Bourbon is arriving in 10 minutes for an unscheduled, unannounced visit, and he has asked to meet the team that saved the son of his best friend."

* * *

 **Hugs to all of you who continue to review and favorite this story...you have no idea how happy it makes me! Know that your comments truly make my day, and remind me of how fun it is to get a reaction from a reader...and to have another identity as a writer! I have met some really amazing, funny, and creative people on this site... the Musketeer fandom rocks!**


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER VII**

* * *

There was a flurry of activity in the ICU as the staff prepared for the President's arrival. Half-filled coffee cups and empty water bottles were swept from the long desk at the nurses' station into a trash can, which was then placed discreetly out of sight. The charge nurse grabbed a bottle of air freshener from the bathroom and deployed at it strategic intervals around the unit, shouting, "Does anyone have any Honest Tea? It's supposed to be the President's favorite, and apparently the Secret Service guys messed up and ran out."

"Check the refrigerator!" called out the ward clerk. "Serge keeps a stash in the vegetable crisper."

Constance had gained admittance to the ward right before the Secret Service advance team had shut it down, and walked into Jacques' room, greeting him with a kiss.

"Thank God you made it with my coffee!" he blurted out. "I heard my nurse say the ward was being closed to visitors for the next thirty minutes, and I was about to panic. You know how **beastly** I can be without my caffeine fix. I don't know how anyone can possibly do **anything** even remotely creative before noon without a cup of coffee."

"You'd be surprised," replied Constance, watching the staff frantically tidying up the unit. "What do you suppose is going on? There's quite a fuss being made."

"Maybe someone important is coming to visit!" Jacques' face suddenly brightened. "I have read that American celebrities sometimes make trips to visit injured soldiers! Maybe Katy Perry's coming! Or Beyoncé!"

The day nurse, an efficient middle aged woman named Daphne, bustled in to the room. "Breakfast will be delayed a bit. We're expecting a visitor—a very special one."

"Are we going to hear her roar?" asked Jacques with a wink, his eyes full of excitement.

She gave him an odd look, then said, "Well, I can't give you **his** name, for security reasons…which is somewhat silly considering the phones to this unit have been turned off, and cell phones are being jammed within a 500 foot radius. But I **will** say that he lives in a big white house, and he loves breakfast tacos…the bigger, the better."

" ** _The President_**?" gasped Constance.

"Oh—my-God!" Her fiancé shrieked. "Constance, did you bring my sketchbook? Please, please tell me you have it!"

"Yes, darling, but…"

"Give it to me! Quickly! We **must** post the sketch I did the night before I was hospitalized! Hurry, hurry! Tape it to the window of my room!"

Meanwhile, Treville stood by the breakroom with Porthos and Athos, his agitation mounting as several of the X-ray techs combed the hospital looking for d'Artagnan. "I'll look like an idiot if my men can't be located right after completing a mission!" he snapped. "And **do not** say _I told you so_!" He glared at Athos, then stalked off, standing by the doors to keep watch for the President's entourage. Aramis stood by the long window in the middle of the unit, staring out at the skyline.

Athos sighed. "I tried to tell him it was a bad idea." He glanced over at Aramis, then looked at Porthos. "What do you think is up with him? He seems pretty subdued for someone who was cracking jokes a few minutes earlier."

"Not sure." Porthos narrowed his eyes as he directed his gaze at the anesthesiologist. "He does seem upset about somethin'. But you know how Aramis is…when he's in one of those moods, he needs his space to think things over for a bit, then he'll come and tell us what's botherin' him."

* * *

D'Artagnan was thankful the ICU was on the fourth floor, and that the elevator was going down, as this limited the area he would need to search. Bursting out of the stairwell on the third floor, he saw a janitor mopping the floor. "Excuse me, sir! Have you seen any small black dogs run through here in the last five minutes?"

The man paused and stared at him, his eyes wary. "No. And I ain't seen the Easter Bunny either." Muttering under his breath, he turned his attention back to his work.

In a flash, d'Artagnan was back into the stairwell, and hit the second floor ten seconds later. As he emerged into the hall, he dashed around a corner, and barreled straight into a young woman in a foreign military uniform.

"I'm so sorry!" he gasped, helping her up.

"The last time I checked, the speed limit here was under 10 miles an hour," she replied, glaring at him. "Let me tell you, I have never seen **anything** like this at a hospital in Spain! First, a loose dog running through the hall, then—this!"

"Wait a minute…did you say a **dog**? Was it small and black, by chance?"

"Yes, I believe it was one of those small…what do you call them? Schnauzers?"

"Show me exactly where it went!" implored d'Artagnan. "I promised to watch it for a woman whose fiancé is in the ICU, and it just….took off!"

"It just ran into the women's restroom," the woman replied, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall. She nodded at the door next to her and smirked. "You're more than welcome to go in. How in touch do you feel with your feminine side today?"

A female colonel walked past, and d'Artagnan gulped, imagining a letter of reprimand ending up in his file on his first day on base.

"Listen, if you help me," he said in a low voice, "I'll make it worth your while."

"Meaning?" she arched an eyebrow at him, clearly enjoying this.

"I'll….I'll….buy you dinner, get you a pedicure and massage at the base spa…I don't know! Just get me the dog! Please!"

Her dark brown eyes sparkled. "How about **you** make me dinner, and do the pedicure and massage yourself?"

He put his hands on his hips. " _Really?_ Come on!"

She laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm just joking. But let me ask you this…do you have a motorcycle?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I have no idea why I'm telling you this, but **yes**. I have a motorcycle."

"Good. Because mine's in a garage in Madrid, and I'm bored. I want to ride."

"Deal. You can ride my Kawasaki up and down the National Mall all night long if you want. Just get it back to me in one piece, and get me the dog. Now. Please!"

She handed him her mobile phone. "Put your contact information in here first-Captain…" she looked at his name tag. "D'Artagnan." He scowled, but complied.

As he punched the number in, she observed, "So, we share the same rank. I'm Capitan Alejandra Manzanares, Spanish Air Force."

"Pleased to meet you," he muttered, then handed her back the phone. As she pocketed it and moved for the door to the toilets, he called out, "Would you like me to get you a coffee as well? It will be **quite** a grueling task to walk into the restroom and pick up a lap dog."

Her voice floated back to him as she vanished. "Don't give me any ideas."

A moment later, she returned, and thrust the dog into his arms. As Milo proceeded to lick d'Artagnan's face, the overhead paging system came on. **" _Captain d'Artagnan, to the ICU stat. Captain Charles d'Artagnan, to the ICU stat."_**

"Go ahead," she nodded. "I'm an infectious disease specialist. I know all about emergencies."

He took off for the stairwell, Milo cradled against his chest. "I owe you!" he called as the door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

A few minutes later, the staff in the ICU stood at attention, d'Artagnan still trying to catch his breath while avoiding Treville's pointed glare. Milo had been given over to one of the elderly volunteers who sat at the information desk at the waiting room outside the operating room. Within seconds, the dog was napping in the woman's lap, worn out from his escapade.

"Twenty seconds to showtime!" called out the charge nurse. "Who's got the Honest Tea?"

"It's over here!" The ward clerk held up the bottle. "All we could find was Peach Oo-la-long. Hope that works."

An instant later, the automatic doors to the ICU opened, and the President of the United States walked in, holding hands with the First Lady. Several of the less critically ill patients began to applaud, as did their families. President Bourbon let go of his wife's hand, and went over to them, earnestly engaging them in conversation.

Anne Bourbon stood off to the side, a few feet from Aramis. While his eyes traveled over the scene unfolding in front of him, images of Adele flashed through his mind. He had tried so hard to convince her to leave Richelieu, but he had failed…and now she was dead.

He felt numb, and looked away from the laughing crowd that had gathered around the President. He was holding court inside Captain Diaz's room, telling jokes and taking a selfie with the two pretty nurses caring for the injured pilot.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis saw the First Lady begin to sway slightly. She turned and rested her forehead against the window in front of her. Her face was pale, and she began to sweat, then shiver slightly. Concerned, the anesthesiologist stepped forward. "Mrs. Bourbon? I'm a doctor. Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?" Her eyes turned to him, and he saw they were glassy and confused.

"I…. don't feel well. I…." She suddenly collapsed, and he caught her just before she hit the floor. "My blood sugar…" she murmured, her eyes half closed.

 _She's a type I diabetic. Her blood sugar has dropped dangerously low._ "Stay with me, now, he said soothingly, and grabbed a small packet of honey off a breakfast tray that was waiting to be served. "You'll ruin my reputation with the ladies if you fall asleep on me. Here, let's get some of this into you." He ripped open the packet and squeezed it into her mouth. Placing her head in his lap, he coaxed her to swallow, and she obeyed, although barely conscious. Her fine blond hair spread around her face like a halo, and he realized she was much more beautiful in person than on television.

Less than a minute later, her eyes flew open, and she glanced around the unit, her eyes wide with fear. "Where? What?"

In that moment, she became a terrified woman emerging from a hypoglycemic event, rather than the First Lady. He took her face in his hands, and looked into her blue eyes, which were filled with tears.

"It's fine. Look at me…look at me! It's over. I've got you.

Her face relaxed, and she seemed to really see him for the first time. "So you have," she whispered, a trace of a shy smile appearing on her face.

* * *

 **Sorry it took so long for this update..I promise it won't take so long for the next one. Hope you enjoyed my modern take on the Anne-Aramis rescue, and thank you to everyone who continues to follow, review and favorite!**


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER VIII**

Aramis, concerned by how pale the First Lady still was, said gently, "Let me get one of your staff members."

"No! No, it's fine. I don't want to make a scene. This is my husband's photo op for the day, and he won't…." she stopped, bit her lip, then said, "What I mean is, I don't want to take the spotlight from him."

"Well, you are the First Lady, so I suppose I shall have to respect your wishes. Do you feel well enough to sit up? It might look a bit compromising for us to be caught in this position." His brown eyes warmed as a hint of color came into her cheeks.

Anne groaned. "All I would need is to have a picture of this scene show up on the cover of _In Touch_ magazine. I can see the headline now... _ANNE'S ICU FLIRTATION-IS SHE CHEATING ON LOUIS_? _!_ "

He sat her up with a chuckle. "I have no wish to come under national scrutiny." Glancing up, he saw two OSI agents hovering outside the door to the ICU. _Things are bad enough right now_. "Perhaps you should readjust the basal rate on your insulin pump." He averted his eyes for a moment, then looked back at her again. "I'm sorry. It must be incredibly difficult to have millions of people know the details of your medical history."

"I'm used to it," she replied. "When Louis began his career in politics, I was determined not to hide my condition. When I was a kid, having diabetes set me apart from everyone else. I want people to see that people with diabetes can lead a full, active life, and having an insulin pump is part of that. I know exactly why my blood sugar went low."

"What happened?"

She flushed. "A change in schedule that I wasn't privy to until the last minute. I didn't get to eat much of a breakfast. But I think I'm fine now. Would you mind helping me up?"

He guided her up, and she smoothed her clothes, then smiled at him. "May I inquire the name of my saviour?"

"Major Aramis d'Herblay." He bowed. "A pleasure, Mrs. Bourbon."

Applause and laughter came from the injured pilot's room once again, and the President's voice was heard once more. "Colonel Treville, now you must introduce me to the heroic physicians who saved Captain Diaz's life!"

Aramis scrambled to join Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan, who stood at attention in the break room.

Treville ushered the President in, then closed the door to allow for privacy.

"Here they are, Mr. President. The finest CCATT team in the Air Force. Lieutenant Colonel Athos, our best trauma surgeon."

"Thank you for your service, Colonel." The President shook Athos' hand warmly.

"Major d'Herblay, an anesthesiologist with expertise in cardiovascular and obstetrical anesthesia."

"Obstetrical anesthesia?" The President repeated with interest, then leaned to Aramis with a wink. "How do I get you on my team? The First Lady and I are hoping for the pitter-patter of little feet in the White House before too long!"

"Best wishes," replied Aramis with an awkward smile.

"Major du Vallon, board certified in Pulmonary and Critical Care Medicine, as well as Sleep Medicine. He is the director of our ICU."

"Quite an impressive set of credentials, Major! I was a gentleman's C kind of guy myself, but I admire those of you who can hit the books with a vengeance!"

"I owe this country everything, Mr. President. My mother came to the United States as a refugee from civil war in Sudan. She taught me that freedom is the most important thing in life, with education a close second."

"That is so inspiring! You could be on a recruitment poster. Treville, please have someone look into that."

"Yes sir."

Moving on to d'Artagnan, Louis scrutinized him for a second, then clapped his hands. "This is perfect! Please tell me you're Hispanic! A woman would be better, but a Mexican-American is just the demographic I'm aiming for! I want my physicians to be a diverse group that represents all of American society!"

"Captain Charles d'Artagnan, Mr. President," replied the orthopaedic surgeon. "And my parents are from Gascony, in France."

"Damn! I was so close. You're not by chance gay, are you? Or perhaps bisexual?"

D'Artagnan stared at the President. "I'm a bit baffled as to why that would matter, but the answer is to both is no."

"The hell you say! Well, I suppose I can't have everything. But you do have matinee idol looks—I predict pictures of you will be lighting up Twitter by the end of the week." He lowered his voice. "Remember, any action you get as a result of this—you have me to thank. I'll expect a full report."

Turning to the Colonel, he crowed, "I think I have found my new medical team, Treville! Meet the new White House official CCATT-code name Tiger Paw!"

The men exchanged looks, and Treville shifted uncomfortably. "The only problem is that Captain d'Artagnan has not yet attended, or even qualified for, Pararescue school. It's a requirement for the Special Forces CCATT teams."

Louis waved his hand. "A minor detail. In case you forgot, Treville, I'm the President, so I can do anything I damn well please." He snapped his fingers, and the aide standing in the corner jumped to his side. "Yes, Mr. President?"

"Get me a pair of jump wings for Captain d'Artagnan. Now."

The young man swallowed. "Yes, Mr. President," and rushed out of the room, having no idea where he would get his hands on one of the small silver parachutist badges. Looking around wildly, he made a beeline for the charge nurse. "The President needs jump wings for one of the doctors in there. Now. Where do I find a pair? He'll fire me if I don't get them to him in five minutes! And I need this job! I'll never get into law school without a good recommendation from him!"

"Ma'am?" One of the technicians, a wiry airman with a heavy New York accent, stepped forward. "He could borrow mine. I was prior Army, and went through parachute school."

"Which one is it?" The frantic aide looked at the row of badges on the technician's chest, and spied the parachute with a pair of wings affixed to it. "Give it to me, now!"

"Dude, chill out!" came a voice from behind him.

The aide turned around, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the glare from the fluorescent lights overhead. "Where the President is concerned, we do not chill out! Have some respect!"

A moment later, he was back in the conference room, handing the badge to the President.

"Fantastic! Good job, Ridley."

"It's Radley, Mr. President."

"Whatever. Can you find me some Honest Tea? Anything but Peach. It's just not manly."

Radley took a deep breath and darted out of the room.

Moving over to d'Artagnan, the President pinned the badge on his uniform and stepped back. "There. Now you're all set."

"But Mr. President, I've never even seen a parachute. How can I wear an emblem proclaiming my competence as a parachutist?"

The President leaned over. "You fake it 'til you make it, Captain. I'll arrange for you to do a crash course over the next two days. In 48 hours, you'll know everything you need to know. Then we'll do a press conference on Thursday morning at the White House. Now, Major Aramis, I'd like you to meet the First Lady. If you are an expert in obstetrical anesthesia, I want you on our #teambourbonbaby. Clever, isn't it? As soon as we get a positive pregnancy test, the T-shirts will go into production."

Taking Aramis by the arm and propelling him out of the break room, the President guided him over to Anne, who stood discreetly off to the side, talking to an elderly woman who was clearly upset, tears streaming down her face.

"Darling, I have someone I'd like you to meet!" chirped Louis, only belatedly noticing the distress on the face of Anne's companion. "Oh, excuse me, madam." Taking her hand, he gave her his complete attention, his expression becoming earnest. "Talk to your President. I'm here for you. What can I do to help?"

"Her daughter is active duty Navy, and she is dying from ovarian cancer," said Anne quietly. "She's only 29."

"So tragic! Is there anything I can do to ease things for you?"

The woman dried her tears with a tissue, and looked up. "She turned for the worse so quickly. Her father is in the Air Force, and he's on temporary duty in Germany. I'm afraid he won't be back in time to be by her side when she dies."

"Easily solved! Tell me what base he is at, and I'll arrange for him to flown here immediately. Where's Ridley?" He turned to see the aide burst into the ICU, a bottle of Honest Tea in hand.

"Right here, Mr. President! "Just" Green Tea, coming up!"

"Good man." He pulled the aide off to the side as Anne gave the woman a hug. "Please arrange for this woman's husband to be flown to his dying daughter's bedside. I want him here in eight hours or less!"

"But Mr President, the commercial flying time is eight and a half hours from Frankfurt!"

"Then I suggest you find the fastest plane you get. And get some good photos—the more heartbreaking, the better. I want them on the official White House Tumblr by tomorrow morning."

"Anne, darling!" Louis called his wife to his side, and turned her companion over to Radley. "Come here, I'd like you to meet someone I think could be a crucial member of the #teambourbonbaby team, so I plan to draft him, if you so approve. This is Major Aramis d'Herblay, an anesthesiologist here who has special expertise in obstetrical anesthesia."

"But I'm not pregnant yet," murmured Anne, flushing in embarrassment.

"But you will be soon!" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I forgot to tell you! The fertility expert said that as far as sperm, I'm packin'! 50 million of the little guys in my semen analysis!"

Anne, at a loss for words, glanced at Aramis, who was doing his best to screen out the conversation. Seeing the desperation on her face, the anesthesiologist stepped forward. "I'll be available whenever you need me. It would be an honor to be involved in the delivery of the First Baby."

The President clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man! Now the First Lady and I must be on our way. I look forward to seeing you all on Thursday! Good luck on parachute training, Captain!" As he swept out of the ICU, once again holding Anne's hand, the two OSI agents entered, and approached Aramis.

"Captain d'Herblay, General-Select Richelieu is waiting to question you. You're to come with us now, sir."

* * *

 **The inherent narcissism and vote-pandering of a significant segment of politicians, no matter what the country, is impossible to resist lampooning. Thankfully there are some devoted, honest public servants out there to compensate for the type of leader Louis represents.**

 **Next time...Aramis confronts Richelieu.**


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER IX**

Aramis was ushered into a black SUV, windows tinted against the glare of the morning sun. One of the agents sat in the back seat next to him, while the other took the wheel.

"I can assure you I'm not a flight risk," Aramis said dryly. "I haven't even had a chance to crack open the bottle of champagne I won at karaoke night at the Officer's Club."

The large man next to him stared at him, his dark aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes. "Save the comedy routine for General-Select Richelieu. I'd love to see his reaction."

Five minutes later, the vehicle pulled up in front of OSI headquarters, which were located on the other side of the base. The sleek, modern office building had been constructed only two years ago, and stood as a contrast to most of the nondescript concrete structures that surrounded it. As he walked through the entrance, flanked by the two agents, Aramis noted that the atmosphere was clearly influenced by Richelieu.

The OSI chief was known for his obsessive attention to cleanliness and order. The floors were shining, and there was not a fingerprint visible on the soaring glass walls of the lobby. The military staff members were without exception dressed in uniforms that could withstand the scrutiny of the most anal-retentive drill instructor. There was not a ribbon or medal that was not perfectly centered, and all shoes appeared to have been spit-shined that very morning.

The anesthesiologist was led down a long corridor that flanked a row of offices. There was a flurry of activity in one room, which appeared to be a control center. Approximately a dozen officers were clustered around several large computer screens, and airmen scurried into and out of the room, carrying files and binders.

At the end of the hall, there was a nondescript elevator that was positioned behind a large potted plant. One of the agents took off his sunglasses, and stared into a circular scanner that was about six inches in diameter.

"A retina scanner?" asked Aramis incredulously. "I didn't realize I'd been drafted into a scene for Mission: Impossible."

Ignoring him, the man straightened up, and the elevator opened. He motioned for Aramis to enter, and the other agent followed him. The doors closed, and they were transported up to the third floor within a matter of seconds.

The elevator opened on to a reception area with a laminate flooring that resembled cherrywood. A striking redhead in dress uniform sat at the L-shaped reception desk. When she looked up at Aramis, his heart stopped. The woman could have been Adele's twin. Her fair complexion and bright blue eyes brought a rush of memories into his brain, and he fought to maintain his composure. _Slow, deep breaths, in and out_.

"I assume this is Major d'Herblay?"

One of the agents nodded, and she stood up. "Let me see if the General-select is ready to receive him." She walked the fifteen feet to the door behind her desk with the grace of a model, her three inch patent leather heels clicking across the floor.

A few moments later, the redhead returned. "General-select Richelieu is prepared to question you Major. You may go in."

Aramis squared his shoulders and walked past her, avoiding her searching gaze. He was glad to be wearing his flight suit instead of his starched class A blues, which he always found incredibly uncomfortable.

Armand Richelieu's inner sanctum was spacious, with a floor to ceiling window on east side of his office, which faced the National Mall. Photos of the OSI head with the President and the Secretary of State were prominently displayed on the wall, along with several framed pictures from his past travels. One small, unobtrusive photo featured Richelieu and Adele on a cycling trip through France, standing next to their bicycles in a vineyard. Armand was looking down at her with a smile, his arm around his waist. Aramis felt physically ill, and forced himself to appear unruffled even as a lust for vengeance surged through his veins.

The OSI chief was engrossed in reading a briefing, and ignored his visitor. Aramis stood in front of the desk for a full minute, his nerves fraying by the second. Finally, he asked, "Sir, are we going to have a discussion? If not, I have a case waiting for me in the OR."

In response, Richelieu carefully arranged his papers, and put them into a manila folder, which he placed into a basket labelled "incoming correspondence." He then leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes trained on the anesthesiologist's face. "You are remarkably brash for someone about to be questioned about his involvement in the death of a beautiful young woman. A death that apparently occurred due to a controlled anesthetic which you have access to on a daily basis."

"If you are implying that I stole a controlled substance from the hospital and sold it—"

"Or administered-"

"For God's sake, I am no murderer!"

"But you knew Adele Bessette." Richelieu's eyes were cold and predatory. "Don't try to deny it, because we have uncovered evidence of a relationship between the two of you."

"I knew her," answered Aramis, placing a subtle emphasis on the second word. "As did you, sir."

"My compliments to your intelligence network," responded the OSI chief, his expression unreadable. "Few people knew of our-acquaintance."

"Now that we have established that we both knew her, I'd invite you to have your agents investigate your potential involvement in her death. You might find the murderer quicker than you think."

"You may think your sarcasm entertaining, Major, but I find it exceptionally tiresome. This story has so far been kept under wraps, but should it end up on the front page of—say, the Washington Post?—you may find yourself the subject of intense scrutiny from not only the OSI, but the national media. A gorgeous model, young and impressionable, in love with a handsome military anesthesiologist-until he suspects her of cheating on him with a distinguished officer well above his pay grade. Several days later, she is found dead. Cause of death? An anesthetic agent." He pressed a buzzer on his desk, then looked up. "You connect the dots, Major."

The two agents entered the room on cue, and Richelieu stood up. "I must advise you that you will be under surveillance for the foreseeable future. I'll be watching your every move. And you can assume that I'll be in touch again shortly." Without another word, he turned and passed through a door at the back of the office, disappearing from sight.

xxxxxx

"Is he still here?" Bonacieux craned his neck, trying to peer around the curtain that separated his bed from the door. "Constance, can you see him? Is he heading this way? God, I should have drawn the cow sitting in a chair, not standing in the middle of the room! Why did you tell me not to have him sitting? It ruins the whole scope of the picture!"

"I don't recall discussing the cow's body language with you," Constance patiently responded, "But I think it looks brilliant just the way you drew it. It can't help but catch the President's eye."

His nurse entered. "The President? He just left."

Bonacieux wailed, "I knew it!" and covered his face with a pillow, falling back onto the bed. "My big chance! All my hopes and dreams crushed in a matter of seconds! Why me? I'm an artist, and I have a delicate temperament! I've never learned how to deal with rejection!"

"Is there any way you can hook him back up to that sedative drip he was on?" Constance asked the nurse in an undertone. "I'm begging you."

The nurse shook her head, and gave her a look of sympathy. "Honey, I have no idea how you live with _that_ on a daily basis." She nodded towards the bed, where the Bonacieux was keeping up an incessant monologue punctuated by cries of distress. "I think my pain is coming back!" he cried out.

"I can't restart the drip," she murmured, "but I do have an order for an as needed sedative. And I believe there is an urgent need at this point."

Going to her medication cart, she punched in a code, then opened a small vial in one of the drawers. The nurse scanned the label, then drew up 3 mls of a clear liquid. Going over to her patient, she gave him a sweet smile. "I think this will help relax you, sir. Night-night. Enjoy your nap" As she injected it into his IV, he continued a stream of conversation, then visibly began to relax. Within a minute, his voice trailed off, and he was soon snoring.

"God bless you," sighed Constance, collapsing into the chair next to the bed. _I have no idea how I do it either._

A few feet away, Porthos had finally started ICU rounds with the staff. A medical student presented the first new admission, a young soldier who had developed respiratory failure from a severe viral infection. The intensivist listened carefully, interrupting the presentation only to ask a few questions. Suddenly, a shout was heard from the other end of the unit. "Dr. du Vallon! We need you over here, now!"

Seeing a crash cart was being dragged into room 8, he sprinted over, donning a pair of gloves on the way. "What's up?"

A respiratory therapist was frantically trying to bag an elderly man, who was writhing on the bed, turning blue from the exertion of trying to breathe. "He pulled out his endotracheal tube, sir!"

Porthos glanced at the ventilator next to the bed, which was sounding an incessant alarm. "Why was he not restrained? Turn that damn beeping off and get me a laryngoscope." He looked at the young woman, who appeared stricken with guilt. "It's not your fault. These things happen. Good job keeping him oxygenated." The pulse oximetry reading was climbing on the monitor from 78% to 88%, and the man's color was improving, even as he continued to struggle.

"Here you go, sir." A technician handed him a laryngoscope.

"Sedation, please." Porthos called out. "Propofol, 200 mg IV push."

A camera snapped, and he stiffened. "Who let a photographer in here?"

"It's just me," chirped Radley. "The President sent me back to get some pictures of you for the recruiting poster."

Porthos swore under his breath. "Just stay outta the way."

"He has a few questions he's like me to ask as well. Do you have a pet?"

As a nurse injected the sedative, he ignored the President's assistant, and ordered, "We'll use rocuronium for the paralytic agent. 80 mg IV push."

As the paralytic took effect, Porthos nodded to the respiratory therapist, who stepped back as he inserted the laryngoscope blade, straining to see the vocal cords.

"A pet, sir?"

"I have a turtle named Tinkerbell," growled Porthos.

"Lovely," murmured Radley, missing the sarcasm in his subject's voice. "Would you rather drink a glass of Guinness or Fat Tire?"

"Neither. I'm a tequila man myself." He passed the ET tube into what he hoped was the trachea, his view of the cords being less than optimal, and instructed the respiratory therapist to bag the patient while he listened to the lungs.

"What is your deepest, most secret desire?"

"To punch you in the face right now," muttered Porthos, giving Radley such a menacing look that the man slunk out of the room. A minute later, the patient was once again hooked up to the ventilator, the crisis having been averted.

"I had no idea you were a turtle lover," Athos drawled, leaning against the door. "I'm imagining you in a cantina in Mexico, downing a shot of tequila with your faithful sidekick curled up inside her shell on the counter."

"And I'm imagining you being slammed against the boards the next time we play hockey," shot back Porthos, stalking past him.

* * *

 **My apologies for the long delay for this update, and thank you to Freddie and the anonymous guest for your lovely comment! Work and a side project have occupied much of my life for the past six weeks, but I hope to be updating regularly from now on. Many thanks to those of you who are following along...your comments and favorites make me smile!**

 **Wren**


	10. Chapter 10

" _Trust everybody, but cut the cards."_

Finley Peter Dunne

* * *

 **CHAPTER X**

"How long has he been drinking?" D'Artagnan sat down next to Athos and Porthos, and nodded at Aramis. The anesthesiologist was sitting alone at the far end of the bar, hunched over his beer. "It's only 6 pm, and it looks like he's been at it for a couple of hours."

The Drop Zone was filled with military personnel who had just gotten off duty, and the sound level in the bar was rapidly escalating.

"Since about 1400." Athos took a sip from his own beer.

"He was drinking while on duty?" d'Artagnan was shocked.

"Of course not!" Porthos' eyes blazed in indignation. "Aramis is as professional as they come! He took a day of leave today."

"Today was Adele's memorial service," interjected Athos.

"Oh, right—his girlfriend."

"He was in love with her." Athos' voice was flat.

"You sound as if you didn't approve," said d'Artagnan.

The surgeon shrugged. "It's not a judgement, just a statement. My main focus is on preventing him from doing himself harm."

Porthos' eyes narrowed as he noticed the bottle that d'Artagnan was holding. "Is that a Smurf on the label? What the hell are you drinking?!"

"It is not a Smurf. It is a gnome," d'Artagnan informed him. "Although this beer is brewed in the land that brought us the Smurfs—Belgium."

Athos put down his beer, and crossed his arms. "It troubles me that you know where the Smurfs were created."

"Perhaps I am just a man with a wider world view," countered d'Artagnan. "This is Houblon Chouffe. It is an India Pale Ale, and has a unique flavor—there's a harmonious balance between pleasant fruitiness and pronounced bitterness."

Athos looked dubious. "How can anyone who calls himself a man drink a beer with a garden gnome on the label?"

D'Artagnan ignored him, and continued to extol his chosen brew. "They use three types of hops. _Three types!_ And it's an unfiltered beer. It's refermented both in the bottle and in barrels. It tastes amazing paired with foie gras, veal filet, or soused herring."

Porthos groaned. "Soused herring? I feel like I'm watching an episode of Iron Chef. Can we please get back to Aramis? I tried to talk to him earlier, but he wouldn't have it. We need a distraction."

"It would need to be something out of the ordinary…" Athos gazed reflectively at Aramis. His mouth suddenly quirked up in a half-smile. "I believe I have it. We have not yet celebrated Captain d'Artagnan's Rite of Passage."

"What exactly is that?" inquired d'Artagnan uneasily.

Porthos' face split in a grin. "That's right, we haven't! And you know how much Aramis loves being a part of any ritual."

"Let me go talk to him." Athos stood up and made his way through the crowd to the bar. He slung an arm around Aramis' shoulders, and spoke to him for a few moments. The anesthesiologist shook his head slightly, but Athos was persistent. Finally, the surgeon seemed to say something that convinced Aramis. He slid off the bar stool, and Athos caught Porthos' eye. He nodded towards the door.

A few minutes later, they were piled into Porthos' 2005 Toyota 4Runner.

"Um, where are we going?" inquired d'Artagnan, feeling like a pledge during rush week.

"That's for us to know, and you to find out," said Aramis, staring out the window at the city street. He peered over his shoulder to look out the back window.

"If you are taking me to somewhere that—"

"Look!" snapped Aramis, turning to face him. "Do you trust us or not? Because if you don't—"

"Easy, Aramis," murmured Porthos, glancing in the rear view mirror.

"It's fine," replied d'Artagnan hastily. "Everything's okay. I trust you."

Ten minutes later, they pulled into a parking spot. The street was lined with bustling restaurants and bars, interspersed with 19th century row houses.

"Where are we?" asked d'Artagnan.

"This is Adams Morgan. It's well-known for the nightlife. Our job tonight is to introduce you to it—as sort of a "Welcome to the Team" evening." Porthos clapped Aramis on the shoulder. "This one here will be calling the shots."

"Sounds good to me," said d'Artagnan brightly. "Where do we start?"

Porthos and Athos looked to Aramis.

"The Monkey's Uncle." The anesthesiologist turned and set off at a fast pace, with d'Artagnan at his heels.

Porthos frowned. "I thought he hated The Monkey's Uncle."

"He does," murmured Athos. "But I'm fairly sure that he's already noticed we are being followed."

"Damn. OSI?"

"Who else?" Athos sighed. "We'd best catch up to them before they get into mischief. Did you call Bruce and let him know we are coming by?"

Porthos grinned. "I sure did. By the time we get there, he'll have everything ready for us."

The Monkey's Uncle was packed by the time they got there, but they managed to find two seats at the end of the bar that had just been vacated. Porthos sat d'Artagnan down in one. "You, my friend, will sit here. As he is calling the shots, Aramis will sit next to you."

The bartender, a young woman in a black leather catsuit, sidled up to them. "What can I get you?" Her bright blue eyes focused on Aramis, and she dimpled a smile at him.

"My young friend here would like a Liquid Steak," declared Aramis. "Actually, make that a double."

"Nice." She glanced at d'Artagnan for an instant, then her gaze returned to Aramis. "Are you having one too?"

"I think I'll skip this one," he murmured. "But we'd like to start a tab, please."

"The name?"

"Put it under Patrick." Porthos thumped d'Artagnan on the back. "We're celebrating this guy."

"Nice to meet you, Patrick. I'm Lina." She tossed her long blonde hair behind her shoulder, then turned and began to mix the shot.

"Why Patrick?" D'Artagnan was puzzled.

"It's a tradition." Athos' voice was grave. "You don't question tradition."

"Okay—but Liquid Steak? I'm afraid to ask."

"It'll put hair on your chest." Porthos' booming laugh caused people ten feet away to turn their heads

"Thanks, but I already have some," muttered the young man.

Lina placed a large shot glass in front of him. "Bottoms up!" she chirped.

D'Artagnan picked up the glass and sniffed it.

"Don't think about it. Just drink," advised Porthos.

The younger man took in a deep breath, then tossed back the glass and drained it. As he swallowed it, he turned pale, and gagged. "What—THE HELL—was THAT?"

"A shot and a half—no wait, three shots, since it was a double—of Bacardi 151, mixed with Worcestershire sauce."

"The La Chouffe gnome is not very happy right now," gasped d'Artagnan.

"Perhaps he needs a bit of a snack," suggested Porthos.

"Good idea." Lina smiled at d'Artagnan, and passed him a bowl of peanuts. "Have at them. And here's a large glass of water. You'll be wanting to stay hydrated."

Athos and Porthos stepped aside to conference, while Aramis ordered an Eggermeister. "An ounce and a half of Jägermeister plus a pickled egg," Lina informed him cheerily.

D'Artagnan gave Aramis a black look. "I think I hate you."

"Ah, but the night is just getting started!" For the first time that evening, a glint of Aramis' usual mischief showed in his eyes. D'Artagnan, relieved to see his new friend perking up slightly, gamely downed the shot. A few minutes later, he felt more relaxed then he had in some time. "I'm glad we did this," he said, his speech starting to slur slightly. "I really feel like I belong now."

The rest of the time at The Monkey's Uncle was a blur. D'Artagnan was drafted to entertain a bachelorette party. He spent a happy hour before he was rescued by his comrades just as he had been coaxed into putting on the bride-to-be's veil and dancing on the bar.

The next thing he knew, they were standing in front of a bright purple building. "TATTOO-TOPIA," he read, not realizing he was shouting. "Am I getting a tattoo?"

"You are. It's the last step in your initiation." Porthos was grinning like an idiot.

"I wonder what I should get." D'Artagnan's voice was faraway. "One of my ex-girlfriends wanted me to get a butterfly once. Or maybe she wanted to get a butterfly. I can't remember."

Aramis began to chuckle. "Well, you don't have to worry about that, because _we_ get to choose."

" _You_ choose?" d'Artagnan paled. "You mean—you choose where the tattoo goes, or what the tattoo is of?"

"Both," all three answered in unison.

"It's a sign of ultimate trust in your brothers," stated Porthos. "I-I still tear up when I think about the day I got mine."

"Let me see!" blurted out d'Artagnan.

"What?!" Porthos looked horrified. "No way! That's bad luck! If you see your teammates' tattoos before you get your own, you'll die on your first mission!"

"Oh. Okay." D'Artagnan was silent for a moment, then smiled. "I'm in. I put myself in your hands."

"Good lad." Aramis pushed open the door, and yelled. "Bruce! We're here!"

A young Asian man emerged from the back of the shop. He was heavily muscled, and several inches over six feet tall. He had a bandana around his head, and his dark hair fell to his shoulders. "Dude, it's been a long time! I heard you were bringing me someone to practice on!"

"Practice?" d'Artagnan paled.

"Captain Charles d'Artagnan, meet Bruce Lee. Stockbroker by day, tattoo artist by night."

"Stockbroker? Why in the world are you running a tattoo parlor? And is your name really Bruce?"

The man smiled at his subject's rapid-fire questions.

"I work as a stockbroker to pay the bills—at least for now. And to keep my parents thinking they didn't waste $200,000 sending me to Columbia to study business. As for my first name, it's really Reginald. But who wants to have a guy named Reginald do their tattoo? Hence, Bruce—like the martial artist. Now, let's get down to business." He turned to Aramis, and asked solemnly, "Has the choice been made?"

"It has," answered Aramis.

"The location, please?"

"Right bicep," said Porthos gravely. "Because as pararescuemen, we would give our right arm to save someone's life."

"And the theme?"

"It is a noble one," intoned Athos. "It evokes the power and beauty of the ocean, which is so intimately involved in our rescue work."

D'Artagnan visibly relaxed, and looked a bit sheepish. "I'm sorry I doubted you guys. I know you'll make sure I have a design that I can be proud to show my mother."

"You're one of us now." Aramis patted his arm in a comforting gesture. "Just put yourself in our hands. We have your back."

"The ceremonial blindfold?" Bruce turned to Aramis.

"Why do you always ask me for it?"

"Don't be so defensive, Aramis," murmured Athos. "You have to admit that you do have a certain reputation."

Aramis glared, then muttered. "I don't have it on me today."

"I'm sure we can improvise something." Bruce rummaged around a drawer, then found a black cloth. He tied it around d'Artagnan's head.

The young surgeon heard a thick book being thumped on the table then Bruce spoke. "I am honoured to have been chosen to be part of the ceremony. Now show me the exact design you want."

Pages were flipped. There were whispers, then a strangled laugh from Athos.

"Are you sure?" whispered Bruce, just loud enough for d'Artagnan to hear. "This means he is destined for great things. The weight of expectations will be heavy upon him."

"He is worthy." Porthos' voice was completely confident.

As Bruce began to work, d'Artagnan found the procedure not as painful as he had imagined. He had to admit that the tattoo artist seemed to be incredibly skilled. Each movement of the needle was precise, and he kept his subject well informed of his progress on the design.

"We're three-quarters of the way through. Doing okay?"

"I'm fine. It's not as bad as I thought."

"You're doing great. The women are gonna love this, you know. You're gonna have to beat them off with a stick."

"I already do," murmured d'Artagnan, a smug look on his face.

Aramis stifled a laugh, and turned away. When he gazed out the window, he saw a dark SUV parked a block away.

"Athos," he whispered. "I didn't want to say anything earlier, but we're being followed."

"I noticed," drawled Athos. He was leaning against the wall, facing away from the window.

"I've got to shake them. I need to get up to Middlesburg! I've got to search the house where Adele died. Maybe I can find evidence that Richelieu was behind her death."

A pair of blue eyes turned to Aramis. "And what experience do you have in crime scene investigation? How do you think you can gain access to Richelieu's vacation home, let alone properly search it?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand." Aramis' eyes darkened. "Athos, you may be a machine—a man devoid of emotion-but I am not! Have you ever loved—truly loved—someone?"

An instant later, he found himself shoved against the wall.

"Because you are mourning, I will forgive you this once." Athos' voice was low and dangerous. "But do not _ever_ assume that I do not know what it is to have loved—and lost."

Aramis stared back at him. "Does that mean you're going to help me?"

There was a long moment of silence, then Athos released him. "I will. But you must promise not to rush into this headlong. We need a well-thought out plan."

"Are you almost done?" Across the room, d'Artagnan's voice was full of anticipation.

"Almost." Bruce bent over his arm, concentrating fully on the finishing touches.

"I have an idea," muttered Aramis. "There's a back exit into an alley. If we hop the fence, we can hail a cab, pick up a rental car, and be in Middlesburg before midnight."

"But what about Porthos—and d'Artagnan?"

Aramis shifted impatiently. "They're big boys. I'll ask Porthos to get d'Artagnan home, and then he can meet us in the morning."

"Let me think about this."

"What's there to think about?" Aramis' eyes were desperate. "I'm going, with or without you." He slid over to Porthos, and whispered a few words to him. The big man frowned, then reluctantly nodded.

As preparations were made for the big reveal, Aramis began to sidle towards the back of the shop.

"Aramis!" hissed Athos. "Not yet!"

He watched the anesthesiologist vanish around the corner. A moment later, the tattoo parlor was plunged into darkness.

* * *

 **I had no idea it had been over 2 months since I had updated this story...it seemed like it was just a month ago. I promise the next chapter will come sooner! Thank you for sticking with me!**


	11. Chapter 11

"The truth is, I've never fooled anyone. I've let men sometimes fool themselves."

Marilyn Monroe

* * *

 **CHAPTER XI**

Athos swore under his breath, and pulled out his mobile phone. By using the flashlight function on the device, he reached the back of the shop in seconds. Throwing open the back door, he saw Aramis climbing the chain link fence in the alley.

"I am not up for this tonight," muttered Athos. A moment later, he was at the fence, scaling it in the wake of his friend. Aramis was already on the ground on the other side.

"What are you, Spiderman?" he hissed, pulling himself up.

Aramis folded his arms against his chest, and glanced at his watch. "What are you, an old man? I'd like to be in Middleburg before Monday."

* * *

When the lights came back on, there was chaos in the tattoo parlor. "OSI!" A burly man in dark clothes flashed his badge, then shoved Reginald against the wall.

A second man had his pistol drawn, and was pointing it directly at Porthos. "On the floor!" he shouted. "Now!" The big man raised his hands slowly, and complied.

"We have a right to know what's going on here!" D'Artagnan, who was still sitting in the chair, was indignant. "This is not North Korea!"

"Shut up!" snarled a third agent. He gave d'Artagnan a dismissive glance, then turned to examine the business permits posted on the wall. "You're not even a real officer—you're just a doctor playing soldier."

Porthos was never sure exactly what happened next, as he was staring at the floor when the first piece of equipment crashed to the ground. An instant later, he looked up to find d'Artagnan throwing his nemesis over a table. The other two agents were shouting, and both had their pistols pointed at the orthopaedic surgeon.

"D'Artagnan!" the big man bellowed. "Enough!"

The younger man, breathing heavily, stopped. Porthos had never seen such a look of wild fury in a man's eyes, and he had to suppress a grin. _This new recruit was going to fit in just fine—once he had accepted his new tattoo and nickname, that is._

* * *

"Bonsoir, mon ami!" Angelique's lilting accent came across Aramis' mobile phone. "Have you been having too much fun at the bars? Just so you know, I'm not going to agree to joining you at a tango club tonight. My legs are way too short to try that again."

Aramis relaxed, and Athos smiled. Angelique had the amazing ability to bring calm to the most intense of human beings. "You're in luck, my angel. I merely need for you to show up at the Avis rental car office at Washington National with a credit card."

There was a pause, then her voice turned to one of mock seduction. "Does Porthos know you're taking me away for the weekend? _And_ making me pay?"

"Maybe it'll convince him to finally make a move on you. He will be coming along—eventually. I'll explain it to you later. Just throw a change of clothes in a bag and meet us in 30 minutes."

"Us?"

"Athos is with me." He paused, then said quietly, "A friend of mine was murdered, Angelique—and I mean to prove it."

He heard her take in a little breath. "I'll be waiting for you. Be safe." She hung up.

Athos glanced at his companion. "Do you think it's wise to involve Angelique? You could be putting her career on the line." They turned into a side street that led past a row of stately brick houses.

Aramis' reply was brusque. "Like I said, I'll explain everything to her when we meet up. She can decide then if she's in or not. I mainly need her help in renting the car. If we rent under my name or yours, we risk the OSI tracing us."

"Do you really think they'd search the rental agency databases?"

Aramis stopped, and turned to face his friend. "Athos, when I got home last night, someone had been in my apartment. They had been careful to cover their tracks, but I could tell. And one of my books was gone."

 _This can't really be happening._ Athos' thoughts were racing now. "Maybe you just misplaced it."

The anesthesiologist shook his head. "Not this one. It was a scrapbook Adele had made for me… she spent hours on it. Beautiful calligraphy, little sketches...momentos." He was lost in the past for a moment, then shook himself free from the memories. "It covered everything we had done in the last six months. Photos from hiking at Cunningham Falls, ticket stubs from the Orioles game, pictures of the B&B we stayed at in Alexandria…it's all there."

He stared at Athos, his voice hollow. "Richelieu means to take me down, Athos-and he'll do whatever it takes."

Athos was silent for a moment, then put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Then we'll do whatever it takes to outwit him."

"Thank you." Aramis' eyes filled with gratitude.

The trauma surgeon gave his comrade a comforting squeeze, then turned to peer down the street. "I believe it's time to hail a cab. Show some leg, Aramis."

* * *

Porthos derived enormous satisfaction from the agitated state of the OSI men. Aramis and Athos had managed to elude them, and he suspected Richelieu would not be amused when he reviewed the surveillance report.

After answering the same questions three times… _No, I don't know where Lt. Col de la Fere and Major d'Herblay went…no, this was just an evening out with our new team member…no, I don't know anything about Adele Bessette's death_ …he raised an eyebrow. "If we're done, I'd like to get Captain d'Artagnan home. He needs his beauty sleep."

The three agents looked at each other, and one shrugged. "Alright. But take my advice and stay away from Major d'Herblay. In fact, I'd consider him radioactive if I were you."

As the door banged behind them, Reginald let out a breath. "I've had some excitement in here before, but this takes the cake."

"Yeah, sorry about the equipment," d'Artagnan waved a hand at the disaster zone behind him. "I got a little carried away."

The tattoo artist beamed. "Are you kidding?! This is awesome! I can file an insurance claim and get all new stuff. It'll be like Christmas for me! Tell you what-the next tattoo is on the house."

"Really?" d'Artagnan brightened up immediately. "Thank you! Maybe I'll get something to match the one you did this time!"

Porthos began to chuckle, and the younger man narrowed his eyes. "What? Athos said the design evokes the power and beauty of the ocean, so I'm pretty sure I know what it is already."

"Oh yeah?" The big man crossed his arms and grinned. "Give me your best guess, then we'll have the big reveal."

"Poseidon." D'Artagnan's voice was smug. "God of the sea, mover of the earth, tamer of horses. You want to show me that you know I have what it takes to be one of the best."

Reginald exchanged a glance with Porthos, and they both broke into laughter. "You are very close," Porthos managed to choke out. "But just remember, knowledge can never replace friendship, young d'Artagnan. Take a look."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath.

"Wait, wait!" Porthos, still laughing, pulled out his mobile phone. "I've gotta be in position to video. Okay, I'm ready. Open your eyes!"

"Just a minute…let me assume the proper pose." D'Artagnan flexed his right arm in Porthos' direction, then looked down proudly at his bicep.

Porthos hit the video button, documenting d'Artagnan's change in expression from pride to completely blank.

"There's denial," murmured Reginald. "And...cue anger."

"What. The. HELL!" d'Artagnan's voice escalated along with his fury. "How am I supposed to ever make love to a woman again with FREAKIN' PATRICK STAR FROM SPONGE BOB ON MY ARM?!"

"Easy," gasped Porthos. "Just say, 'Hm… I got it! Let's get naked!'"

* * *

 **There were some inspired guesses for the tattoo...Nemo and a smurf among them. I had to smile, given that they were all cartoon characters also. But LadyCavil gets the Inspiration Award. A virtual cup of hot chocolate for you, my friend!**

 **Thank you for reading...and for your reviews! Your comments make my day, especially after a long day at work. A special thanks to the guest reviewers from last chapter...I promise the next one chapter will be longer...at least I didn't take two months to update this time! ;-)**

 **Next time...things get more dangerous for the boys.**


	12. Chapter 12

_"Take away love, and the whole earth is a tomb."_

Robert Browning

* * *

 **CHAPTER XII**

Armand Richelieu sat back in his leather armchair, gazing up at the skylight in that opened up over his living room. He could feel a dull throbbing building in his temples, and knew that a roaring migraine was not far behind.

His personal mobile phone suddenly shrilled. He cursed, hitting the mute button and throwing the phone to the floor. Sixty seconds later, it was buzzing again. He ignored it, rubbing his temples in an effort to stave off the headache. _If it's important, they will call my official phone._

Thirty seconds later, his duty phone was blaring from the pocket of his uniform jacket. He cursed again, and reached for the garment, which was draped over the nearby couch.

Seizing the phone and switching it on, he barked, "Richelieu."

"Sir, we've lost him."

Rage flooded through his body, and his voice became low and guttural. "You don't mean our friend."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "Unfortunately, yes, sir, I do."

"I give you one simple assignment! ONE! To follow a goddamn doctor who spends all day sitting in a chair in an operating room…and you can't do it! How long ago did you lose him?"

"Five minutes."

"Five minutes? Why the hell are you calling me now?"

"You didn't answer your personal phone, sir."

"Why in the hell-" Armand suddenly realized he had asked them to keep all communications involving d'Herblay off official channels. "Well, you'd better find him…or else plan on spending the next three years in North Dakota—in a missile silo!"

He ended the call, and fought the urge to scream. _Incompetents! I'm surrounded by them!_

A cool breeze wafted into the room, bringing with it the scent of jasmine, with a hint of gardenia.

"Are you ready to have a _real_ professional take over the job?"

He whirled, and glared at the slim, dark-haired woman who sat perched on the edge of his antique rosewood writing table.

"What are you doing here?" he muttered, inwardly relieved that the situation might yet be salvageable.

"You gave me your security code, remember?" Her green eyes rested on him, examining his countenance. He hated the scrutiny of her gaze, and turned his back on her, reaching for the decanter of whisky on the desk.

"What do you have for me?"

"No expression of gratitude, Armand?" Her voice was mocking, and he turned in a flash, grasping her by the neck.

"Don't you _ever_ forget who spirited you out of Iran," he hissed, feeling a thrill of satisfaction when he saw a brief flash of fear in her eyes. "You would be dead or grovelling in a gutter somewhere if I hadn't come to your rescue. _Anything_ you have _, anything_ you achieve, it's all thanks to me."

"If you say so," she choked, her eyes defiant once again. He tightened his grip, and her pupils dilated.

"Such ingratitude! I'm tempted to throttle your lovely little neck until you pass out. But if you can manage to squeak out, 'I owe you everything, Armand,' in that sultry voice of yours, I might relent."

Anne stared back at him, clearly unwilling to comply. He sighed, and pressed down on her trachea. She began to struggle against him, battling for to breath.

"Don't fight me," he crooned. "That's a very stupid tactic. It will just use up your oxygen sooner. Isn't it incredible how the human body, with all its elegance and complexity, is held hostage to oxygen? Two simple, identical atoms—bound together for eternity?"

Her eyes widened.

"Are you ready to properly thank me?" he asked gently.

Her eyes darted away, then returned to his, and she nodded.

"Then get on your knees!" Richelieu shoved her to the ground, and loosened his grip slightly. "Let me hear you say it," he growled. "And use the words exactly as I gave them to you." She hesitated, and he leaned over and ran his tongue over her left earlobe. "Now, darling. Before you stimulate me to come up with much more creative ways for you to thank me."

She swallowed, then looked up at him, struggling to keep the hatred out of her eyes _. No man will ever treat me like this again. First there was Thomas...then Athos…I thought he was different, but he was just the same—maybe worse, because he pretended to love me. I will let Richelieu live as long as I need him…after that, he's a dead man_.

"I—owe—you—everything, Armand," she gasped.

He shoved her away from him, and she slumped to the floor, panting for air.

"Then prove I haven't wasted my time on you! I expect a return from my investments."

She pulled herself to her feet, and straightened her black leather jacket, then headed for the door. When her hand closed on the knob, she did not turn around, but spoke in a calm, even voice. "You have nothing to worry about. I know exactly where they are."

* * *

Athos and Aramis were still in the taxi when Aramis got a text from Angelique.

 _Transportation has been secured. Meet me outside terminal B. Black Nissan._

"She's amazing." Aramis showed Athos the text.

"She is indeed. When do you think Porthos is going to realize she has a thing for him?"

Aramis shrugged. "He's a bright boy. He'll figure it out sooner or later."

They were dropped off at Terminal B five minutes later, and a black Nissan promptly pulled up to the curb. As the door swung open, samba music blared from the radio. Athos briefly considered asking Angelique if she wanted him to drive, then thought the better of it. He knew full well the request would earn him a glare and a muttered refusal. Besides, there was no denying that the pilot drove with the same precision and finesse that she flew.

As they glided into traffic, Angelique switched the radio off, and slanted a look at Athos, who sat in the front seat next to her. He raised an eyebrow, and gave an infinitesimal nod towards Aramis. The anesthesiologist was in the back seat, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

Her dark eyes glanced in the rear-view mirror. "Talk to me, d'Herblay. You spoke of murder. What's going on?"

"I've been thinking, Angelique…you don't need to know the details. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. If this goes south, I don't want you to be drawn into the dragnet."

"The dragnet?" She was silent for a moment. "Who have you pissed off this time?"

"Richelieu," he muttered, staring out the window.

She gave a low whistle. "You play for keeps, Aramis….always have." A few seconds passed, then she asked slowly, "Are you saying that Richelieu was involved in a murder plot?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." He cleared his throat. "Angelique, do you remember a couple of months ago when I ran into you at the Orioles game?"

She laughed. "How could I forget? I think I still have a picture on my phone of you in that black and orange spirit wig…strictly for blackmail purposes, of course."

"Do you remember the woman I was with? Beautiful redhead? Long curly hair? Her name was Adele. Richelieu either killed her—or had her killed."

Angelique felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She recalled seeing Aramis and Adele in line at the concession stand. He had been standing behind Adele, his arms wrapped around her. He had bent over and whispered in her ear, and she had broken into laughter, then turned to kiss him. Aramis had looked ridiculous with the bouffant spirit wig on his head, but he had been lost in his moment with Adele, oblivious to the outside world. When Angelique had hailed him, he had looked relaxed and happy, and had taken her ribbing about his headgear in a good-natured fashion.

She took in a deep breath. Aramis was not one to make accusations based on emotion. If he thought Adele had been murdered, and that Richelieu was involved, he was probably correct. She met his eyes in the rear view mirror. "You're my brother, Aramis. What can I do to help you prove it?"

An hour later, they had pulled up to the lane that led to Richelieu's property. Angelique slowed the car for just an instant, then continued on. Through the trees, they caught a glimpse of a police van parked outside the stables.

"What's going on?" muttered Aramis uneasily. "We should pull over now, and take a look."

"We drive on until we find a safe place to hide the car," replied Athos calmly.

"Meaning we give them a chance to dispose of whatever evidence Richelieu has directed them to!" snapped Aramis. "There is no way I'm letting him win! Angelique, pull over!"

"Sorry, my friend." The pilot shook her head, and continued on.

"Pull—over—now! The two of you can continue on to Canada if you so desire, but I'm not going with you!"

Just then, Athos sighted a familiar bend in the road. His stomach lurched, and he fought the urge to pretend he had never seen the rambling estate that spread out in the valley below. He took in a deep breath, then said, "There's a driveway with a small gate on the left, just past this curve. If you blink, you'll miss it. Slow down…there! Turn in just there."

Angelique followed his directions, and the car stopped in front of a massive iron gate. Athos got out of the car and went to a small box mounted on the stone wall next to the gate. He punched in a code, and the gate swung open.

He got back in the car, his face pale.

"You know this place?" asked Aramis, awed at the stately home in front of them.

"Unfortunately, yes." His voice was bitter, and Aramis knew from experience not to press him.

The colonial-era manor was airy and gracious, with two wings extending from the main central living space.

When Athos unlocked the door and flipped on the light, Angelique could not help but gasp at the sweeping marble staircase that led to the upper floor.

Without a word, he went into the sitting room, and uncovered the furniture, which had been shrouded in sheets.

"We'll have a secure base of operations here," he said quietly. "I think it best we sleep for a while, then head over to do some surveillance on the Richelieu estate just before dawn. The police should be gone by then."

"How do you know the owner won't have a problem with us staying here?" asked Angelique. "This place looks like no one has been here in years."

"There will be no problem," muttered Athos. "I own it." He strode out of the room, leaving his two companions in shock.

"Did you have any idea Athos came from this kind of money?" whispered Angelique.

Aramis shook his head. "I knew his family was well off, but I never imagined this," he replied, glancing at the family portraits that graced the walls of the chamber.

Her presence was everywhere in this house. Every room, every corner was paired with a memory that had been tucked into the deep recesses of his brain. They began to file out now, assaulting his senses as he moved down the hall.

Athos began to open a series of doors that led to a hall of rooms, knowing that this would lead to the most intense memories of all. Although he wanted nothing more than to turn around and retrace his steps, his mind urged him on. _You deserve to suffer. Everything that happened here was your fault. All of it._

The first room was a formal dining room. The moon shone on the formal banquet table, now covered in dust. He closed his eyes, and could almost smell the aroma of roses and champagne.

 _It was Valentine's Day, their first as a couple. He had taken Anne out to a cozy local bistro, and they had lingered over a sumptuous five course meal. Their conversation had been easy, and had been punctuated by laughter and teasing. At one point, he had reached for her hand. "You make everything so easy," he had said, his voice raw with emotion. "When I'm with you, I forget about everything that came before. It's as if I was existing in suspended animation, waiting for you to show up and breathe real life into me."_

 _Her eyes had softened, and she had murmured, "I feel the same way, Athos." They had walked the cobblestone streets of Middleburg after dinner, watching the snow fall in the warm glow of the streetlights. When they had reached the gazebo in the town square, he had led her up the steps, then put his arms around her, holding her close._

 _"I never had much use for Valentine's Day," he murmured in her ear. "But perhaps that's because I never seemed to be with the right person." She drew back, and gave him a look that took his breath away. "Suppose we go home? You did say we would be one only ones at La Fere tonight, correct?"_

 _He gave her a quizzical glance, then chuckled. "That's right. I gave the staff the night off. I didn't fancy the idea of having servants hovering about while I was trying to seduce you."_

 _"Is that what you have planned for me?" she inquired, her face a picture of mock innocence. "Olivier d'Athos, I had no idea that you lured me out here with plans to ravish me."_

 _He fixed his deep blue eyes on her sparkling green ones, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "Liar," he drawled._

 _Thirty minutes later, they were inside the house. As soon as the door closed, Athos pressed her against it. "Finally alone," he muttered, his voice thick with desire._

 _"Do you intend to have your way with me now?" She was unwinding the thick wool scarf from around his neck, and his warm hands had already divested her of her coat. The blue silk dress she was wearing had slipped off one shoulder, and his lips skimmed over her soft, creamy skin._

 _"Oh, yes." He swept her into his arms, causing her to shriek with laughter. "And I plan to do so more than once." When he carried her into the formal dining room, she saw a fire crackling in the large stone fireplace. The polished mahogany table, long enough to seat 12 comfortably, was set for just two. Two white candles had been lit, and their warm glow illuminated the vases of red and white roses which were scattered about the room. A bottle of champagne was on ice, with two crystal glasses set beside it._

 _Athos looked down at her, and saw the look of wonder in her eyes. "All this-for me?" she whispered. It was as if she were a small child on Christmas morning, and the fact that he had been the one to inspire that feeling made his heart nearly burst with joy._

 _"All this—and more," he murmured, setting her down and uncorking the champagne. He tossed his suit jacket to the side, poured them both a glass, then handed her one. "I read something a few days ago which reminded me of you. '_ I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride. _'_ _Thank you for showing me what love really is." Her eyes filled with tears, and he leaned forward and kissed her, wanting nothing more than to restore a smile to her face. She responded with an intensity that caused him to pull away from her, his breathing ragged._

 _"_ _If we continue in this vein, I will have you here on the dining room table."_

 _"_ _Then so be it," she murmured, kissing his neck as she undid his tie. "But I want that shirt off you. Now."_

 _He arched an eyebrow at her as he lifted her onto the table. "You're a demanding little vixen."_

 _His hands had already unzipped the back of her dress, and a laugh bubbled up from her throat as she divested him of his shirt. "And you aren't?"_

 _"_ _Not really. I just prefer my women scantily clad."_

 _An instant later, Athos had expertly slid a hand up her thigh, and freed her from her dress with one fluid motion._

 _"_ _Much better," he murmured. His eyes roved over her lithe body, lingering on her red lace bra. "Red is definitely your color."_

 _"_ _I think at this point I could be wearing neon yellow, and you'd find it alluring."_

 _He laid her back on the table, and began to tease her soft curves with his mouth. "Do you think me so shallow?" he asked hoarsely._

 _"_ _I wouldn't call it shallow," she replied, moaning as his ministrations became more attentive._

 _"_ _What would you call it?" His voice was rough with passion._

 _"_ _Sublime," she breathed, beginning to slowly move in time with his body._

Athos tore open the door to the drinks cabinet. Before his thoughts began to return to the present, he had drank half a bottle of wine straight from the bottle.

His eyes fell on a framed wedding picture on a small side table. He picked it up, staring at the beautiful bride smiling at the camera. Her arms were around the handsome groom, who had eyes only for her.

 _I loved a woman once. She died._

* * *

 **Milady and Athos will meet soon, I promise...thank you for continuing to follow along! Your comments are so appreciated!**


	13. Chapter 13

_"There are only really a few stories to tell in the end, and betrayal and the failure of love is one of those good stories to tell."_

Sean Lennon

* * *

 **CHAPTER XIII**

I can't sleep." Aramis shifted restlessly in the leather recliner, and glanced over at Angelique.

She sighed. "Neither can I." The pilot lay on her back on the floor, her jacket balled up under her head.

"That's probably because you're flat on your back on a hard wood floor. Why don't you lie down on the couch?"

Angelique stared up at the ceiling. "When I was a kid in Africa, we spent many nights sleeping on the ground in the jungle-not knowing if we would live to see the morning, or have our throats cut while we slept. The floor doesn't bother me. The memories do."

"Well, if we are both awake, why waste time?" Aramis stood up, and reached for his jacket. "I refuse to just lie here when we could be finding proof that Richelieu is Adele's killer."

Angelique sat up, and reached for her jacket. "Athos won't like it."

"Who says he has to know? You have the keys to the car. We'll be back well before he ever wakes up."

She smiled as they left the house. "I like the way you operate, d'Herblay. Reckless. You have the soul of a pilot."

"But unfortunately not the required depth perception. They told me that right away on my entrance physical."

"Well, if I ever need surgery, you're doing the anesthesia. You just have to swear that you'll keep Porthos away from me in the recovery area."

"And why is that?" he inquired teasingly.

She ignored him as she started up the car, then sighed. "Let's just say I tend to get a bit-disinhibited-under anesthesia."

"Ah, you're one of those." He chuckled. "You wouldn't be the first by any means.I had a 75-year-old woman last week who told me that she wanted to take me home and have me work as her pool boy-attired in a Speedo, of course."

Angelique burst out laughing as she pulled out of the driveway. "You have the best stories of any CCATT doctor I've ever worked with."

"It's all in the telling, my friend."

xxxxxx

The rest of the bottle of wine had gone down quicker than the first. Still holding the framed wedding photo, he let the bottle slip to the floor. It hit the Persian rug with a dull thud, and he mechanically reached for another.

Wandering aimlessly through the corridors, Athos suddenly found himself in the bedroom that he and Anne had shared on their weekend visits. His eyes involuntarily searched for the slim white vase that she had often filled with wildflowers. It still stood on top of the small wooden table that sat under the window. He picked it up, and memories of the day he had bought it for her came flooding back.

They had been out for a drive, and on impulse had stopped at a local pottery shop. Anne had seen the vase straightaway.

 _"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she had said, her green eyes sparkling._  
 _He had shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. "I suppose so...but it's a vase, not Chagall."_

 _"You and your modern art! Have you no soul, Athos? This piece would be lovely in our bedroom here. Just think of how it will look filled with forget-me-nots."_

 _"I prefer them in your hair," he had murmured, kissing the top of her head._

Six months later, the woman he loved had killed his brother. That, he could not forgive-and so he had left her to die in a hellhole of an Iranian prison. _Why? Why did it all have to be a lie?_ He felt a wave of rage pulse through his body, and he threw the vase against the wall, shattering it instantly.

 _I should have never come back here_. He lifted the bottle to his lips, and drank greedily, wanting to reach the oblivion of intoxication sooner rather than later.

Twenty minutes later, he staggered into the long gallery that led to the east wing. He clutched a bottle of port he had found in the library. Taking a long swig, he stood in the middle of the hall, surveying his surroundings. His father had been an avid collector of European tapestries, and several works dating back to the 17th century were arranged at intervals along the wall.

He shuffled along, his bleary eyes trying to focus. The faint smell of smoke came to his nostrils _. I must be dreaming_.

Shaking his head, he sniffed the air again. it was unmistakable now. His brain identified the smell, registered it, then moved on.

 _Had the unicorn in that tapestry always been dancing with a bear?_ Squinting, he swayed slightly, then lost his balance and fell.

He hit the floor heavily, and rolled to his side. It had suddenly become warm, and he realized he was sweating. His hand scrabbled for the bottle of port, which had ended up on its side several feet away. It seemed to be in several places at once, and finally gave up, rolling on to his back. One hand found its way to the silver pendant around his neck. Anne had bought it for him on their honeymoon. It depicted the thistle, the national flower of Scotland.

 _"Perfect for a trauma surgeon," she had said with a smile. "It is hardy-grows where other plants don't, and survives despite harsh conditions. It's also a symbol for protection-look, the leaves are all prickly.."_

 _"Are you implying I'm a bit prickly as well?" he had inquired._

 _She had tilted her head to the side, and thought for a moment. "You can be prickly at times. But I like to think of you more as a hedgehog-prickly, yet adorable."_

" _A hedgehog?" he had echoed with amusement. "That's not exactly the stuff of romance novels. Shouldn't you compare me to a knight?"_

 _"Perhaps," she had murmured, then kissed him._

The smell of smoke was thicker now. His eyes began to burn. He coughed and turned to his side. It was then that he saw her. She was holding a slim, military-grade flashlight in one hand, and a can of petrol in the other.

 _It's a ghost. It has to be!_

She was as stunning as he remembered, her green eyes luminous in the light. His heart began to beat in a wild, staccato rhythm, punctuated by pauses that nearly took his breath away. He struggled to speak clearly, but failed miserably, slurring his words in a most humiliating way.

"You're dead. You were sentenced to hang that day."

She was at his side in an instant, the can of petrol discarded so she could pull out a knife. The blade was pressed against his throat a moment later.

"But you didn't watch it happen, did you?" she hissed. "You couldn't stay to watch your beloved wife choking on the end of a rope!"

"How? How did you escape?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.

She laughed-a short, bitter laugh. "As it happens, men all over the world are just the same. It was one of the guards. I seduced him. As soon as you left, he spirited me out of the prison. From there, it was only a couple of days to the Turkish border and a new life."

"I'm dreaming. I have to be…"

"Drunk, perhaps. But not dreaming."

"So why are you here?"

"To erase everything associated with our past. To destroy it completely. I've been watching you for some time, Athos. It's only right that you should die with this house."

"So you're going to murder me…just like you did my brother."

"When will you wake up and face the truth?! I tried to explain it to you that day in Iran. I killed Thomas in self-defense! He was an illegal arms dealer! I know you want to believe he was still the same boy you played catch with in the backyard...the boy that volunteered at the humane shelter…but he wasn't, not by a long shot. He had a drinking and a drugs problem, and he was in a dark, dark place, Athos. Innocent people died—and were going to continue to die—from the arms he funneled to that Al Qaeda splinter group!"

He swallowed, feeling the blade press into the flesh of his neck. "You killed him because he discovered the truth. That you were a criminal…who lied and tricked your way into my life."

" _He_ was a criminal…an abusive, cruel man who deserved to die. He tried to kill me, Athos! Why can't you understand that?! I loved you…I wanted us to have a future together…"

He felt his eyes burn with tears, and turned his head to breathe in her scent one last time. "Anne…"

She tried to remain impassive, but his hair, thick and unruly as ever, was under her fingers now. He smelled of sweat, alcohol, and smoke. She fought the impulse to bury her face in his hair and weep…for what they had had, and what they had lost.

"Perhaps it's best it ends like this." She half-expected him to put up some kind of resistance, but he pushed his neck against her blade.

"Do it," he rasped. "Do it now!"

She had never seen his eyes quite like that before. The spirit of the man who often spent hours in an operating room trying to piece shattered bodies back together…who had braved enemy fire in Afghanistan to save two gravely injured soldiers…was gone. At that moment, he was ready to die. In fact, he craved death. The fact that he was so passive suddenly angered her. _Can you not allow me one bit of satisfaction at the last? Fight me, goddamn you!_

"ATHOS!" the shout echoed in the distance. "ATHOS! WE'VE GOT TO GET OUT!"

Her green eyes settled on his for one last moment, and she released him. Seizing the can of petrol, she strode out of the room without a backwards glance.

"ATHOS! THE WHOLE PLACE IS ON FIRE!"

The words registered in his brain, but he was completely drained, and powerless to move. Thoughts muddled by drink, shock, and grief, Athos breathed in deeply. He willed the smoke to fill his lungs, render him unconscious, and lower the curtain on the tragedy that was his life.

* * *

 **I hope to be back sooner rather than later! Thank you for the continued reviews and follows!**

 **Wren**


	14. Chapter 14

_"A lie has no leg, but a scandal has wings."_

Thomas Fuller

* * *

 **CHAPTER XIV**

D'Artagnan fought through the curtain of smoke that billowed through the hallway. Crouching down as low as he could, he held his jacket over his mouth. "ATHOS! WHERE ARE YOU?"

Emerging into the long gallery, he saw a body prone on the floor. "ATHOS!" Rushing to the older man, he turned him on his side.

"Leave me." The voice was hoarse. "Leave me, damn you!"

"The hell I will!" snapped d'Artagnan. "When you took the oath of office, you swore to faithfully discharge the duties of your office! You are not checking out now! Come on, get up!" Slinging his arm over his shoulder, he lifted him up from the floor. After several tense minutes, they made it out to the lawn.

"Athos! Athos!"

The trauma surgeon's face was smeared with soot, his eyes unfocused.

The engine of a motorcycle roared to life close by. D'Artagnan caught a glimpse of a woman putting on a helmet, then speeding away.

"Wake up!" D'Artagnan slapped his friend's cheek, and the blue eyes widened. "What happened, Athos? Who is that woman?"

"Since we arrived, I felt her presence everywhere…" His deep voice was only a rasp. "I thought I was imagining it."

"Who? Who are you talking about?"

"My wife. She died five years ago." Athos head lolled to the side, and he muttered, "I had the chance to save her from death by hanging, but I walked away. I condemned her to die. She was a cold-blooded murderer."

"Look at me!" d'Artagnan grasped the back of his head, and forced Athos to meet his gaze. "Are you saying that the ghost of your dead wife tried to kill you?"

"She's not dead, d'Artagnan. She survived. This was her revenge." He paused, and when he spoke, his words were full of pain. "It was my duty. My duty to leave her to die. My duty to condemn the woman I loved to death. I've clung to the belief that I had no choice."

His voice broke then. " _Five years_. Five years learning to live in a world without her." His empty eyes stared up at d'Artagnan. "What do I do now?"

xxx

Angelique pulled the car into a service road at the edge of the estate, and parked it, flipping the lights off. "By the GPS, we should be only 0.8 kilometers away from the boundary of Richelieu's property. It'll just take a few minutes to get there."

Aramis was out of the car before she had even finished her sentence. Angelique cursed under her breath in French, and bolted out after him. Sliding in front of him, she put her hand against his chest.

"Stop right there! We are not going in on a damn suicide mission! Now get your head together, or I'm calling Porthos!"

"Go ahead, make my day!" snarled Aramis. "He texted me earlier to say that he and d'Artagnan had left straight from the tattoo shop. I gave him directions to Athos' estate, then let him know we were headed over here to take a look around. They should be here any moment."

"Actually, I'm already here." A deep voice came from behind them, and they both jumped.

"Getting sloppy, d'Herblay." Porthos shook his head, grinning broadly. "You two were so busy squabbling you didn't even hear me. Evening, Angelique."

" _Pour l'amour de Dieu,_ " muttered Angelique. "Was that really necessary, Porthos?"

"If I had been an unfriendly, you'd both be dead. So yes."

"I'm surprised you got here so quickly," said Aramis, giving him a questioning glance. "Things looked a bit sticky when Athos and I left Bruce's shop."

"There was a bit of unpleasantness when the pup got mouthy, but I managed to get him out of there unscathed. I've got the gift of a silver tongue, you know."

"Yes, you're quite the diplomat," observed Angelique dryly. "So where _is_ the newbie?"

"I dropped him off at the entrance to the estate. He was on call last night, and still somewhat under the influence of the concoctions he drank earlier. I told him to go on ahead and get some sleep. My car's over there." He nodded at his 4Runner, which was unobtrusively parked by a long hedge. His level gaze turned to Aramis. "Angelique has a point about not stormin' into the place, though. I saw a police van pulling out from the driveway just now. They might have been relieved by another crew."

"Or they might have been leaving. Period." Aramis' eyes glinted as the moon emerged from behind a cloud. "Let's get a move on. I'm going to nail Richelieu to the wall before I'm done."

"Aramis." Porthos enclosed his friend's arm in a grip of iron. "I understand your need to prove what happened to Adele, but I'm not lettin' you do something reckless. If you can't play it smart, you're stayin' right here. And don't think for a second I won't knock you out if I have to."

"Porthos, please! Caution is my middle name." With that, he melted into the surrounding trees, with Angelique and Porthos in close pursuit.

xxx

Anne had sped along a hiking path that led through the forest from the la Fère estate to the vicinity of Richelieu's property. Halting for a moment, she checked her GPS, then continued on at a slower speed until she saw a familiar landmark. Killing the engine, she pulled the motorcycle to the side of the path, concealing it in the vegetation. The wind had changed, and was now blowing out of the east. The temperature had dropped noticeably. Anne pulled her jacket round her more closely. A light rain began to fall, and the rumble of thunder was heard in the distance.

Five minutes later, she was in position, tucked inside the ruins of an old stone building that sat on a hill overlooking the main house. She surmised that the structure had once been a storage shed. There were bits and pieces of antiquated farm equipment scattered around the dirt floor. A family of mice appeared to have taken up residence in a frayed feed sack that was draped over a rusty wheelbarrow.

Wrinkling her nose at the rodents, Anne picked up her night-vision binoculars, scanning the grounds for any hint of unwanted visitors. Two minutes later, she picked up three people stealthily making their way towards the back of the house. Picking up her mobile, she texted Richelieu.

 _Quarry within range._

An answer came an instant later.

 _Engage as necessary._

Putting the binoculars down, she reached for her Israeli-made Tavor assault rifle. The night vision scope was already in place, and in seconds she had her target in sight. She was an excellent marksman, and fell easily into her routine.

 _Breathe in, breathe out. Fire_.

An instant later, a bullet flew past Aramis, narrowly missing his neck.

"Down! Get down!" Porthos yelled, pushing Angelique behind a stainless steel barbeque grill, then taking up position next to her. Aramis dropped to the ground, rolling behind a large oak tree. Another bullet whizzed past him. The rain began to fall harder now, and a bolt of lightning cracked through air.

"Whoever this is knows what they're doing—and they're playing for keeps!" shouted Aramis.

The big man grimaced as hail the size of peas began to pelt the ground around them. "They also seem to have a strange fascination with your head—and trying to plant a bullet in it!"

"Can you see where the shots are coming from?" called Angelique.

"It looks like from that old building up on the hill," replied Porthos. Pulling out his pistol, he darted out from his cover, aiming at the ruined building. He got off one shot before an answering bullet caught him in the left shoulder.

"Porthos!" Angelique dove forward, pulling him back behind the grill. "What the hell are you doing? I'm a pilot, not a doctor!" Muttering in rapid fire French, she stripped him of his jacket and shirt.

"Angelique, I never knew you cared." Porthos tried to grin, but winced as she tore a piece of his shirt off and applied pressure to the wound.

"This is what I get for accepting Aramis' calls after 10 pm!" she snapped. "Never again! And for your information, I would rather you and your buddies stick around. I have no desire to be training up a new CCATT crew to my exacting standards. Dealing with the new orthopod boy-what's his name? d'Artagnan?-is bad enough."

"So, I meet your standards?" Porthos asked, chuckling to himself.

She pressed down harder on his wound. "Barely. Don't get cocky."

Two more bullets ricocheted off the ground, just inches from Aramis.

"This stopped being fun five minutes ago!" shouted the anesthesiologist, his back against the oak tree. "You're not bleeding out, are you? Because I stay on the non-surgical side of the drape in the OR. I don't do scalpels."

"No, he's not bleeding out!" hissed Angelique. "He's too busy taking stupid chances!" She glared at Porthos. "You are going to owe me dinner for this. I'm partial to _Le Diplomate_ , Logan Circle. Their trout amandine is to die for."

"It's a deal!" gasped Porthos. "Just go easy on the arm, okay? I've grown rather fond of it over the years."

Aramis glanced to the head. "Damn! Headlights coming down the drive. It looks like another police van! Porthos, can you move? I doubt our friend up the hill can get a decent shot off in this mess."

"I'm fine!" Porthos sat up, and immediately felt dizzy. Angelique gave him an accusing look, and he muttered, "I'm fine. Play along with me, and there will be homemade crème brûlée in it for you."

She smiled. "I had you down as a lost cause, Porthos, but you show great signs of promise. The real test is whether you break the crust of the crème brûlée with the back of a tiny spoon, like Audrey Tautou in _Amélie_. Have you seen that movie? It's a classic!"

"I haven't had the pleasure," murmured Porthos as he got to his feet, and slung his arm around her neck. "But I have the feeling I'm going to be forced to watch it in the near future."

"Forced?! You will love it!"

xxx

 _Mission aborted due to inclement weather._

Anne's cell rang a moment later. "What do you mean, inclement weather?" hissed Richelieu. "We're in Virginia, not in the Gobi Desert!"

"Evidently you haven't heard there was a nasty hailstorm down here. I was able to hit one of them—the big one, Porthos—but I think it was only a superficial wound."

"I don't give a damn about Porthos!" shouted Richelieu, pacing the floor in his study. " _Aramis_ is the problem! Aramis is the target!" He took in a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You have disappointed me. Now I will have to resort to Plan B, which is much less tidy—although possibly more gratifying in the long run. Meet me for breakfast at 0600. The usual place." He hung up, then searched his contacts, and rang a number.

"Hello?"

"Jillian? It's Armand. How are you, darling? It's been ages."

"So it seems." A pause. "Do you have something for me?"

Richelieu stared out the window at the DC skyline, his free hand curling into a fist. "I do indeed. A very juicy, exclusive story that will send _Exposé_ 's sales through the roof. It's a classic love triangle, involving a gorgeous young model, an Air Force special operative, and a man of power."

* * *

 **Season 3 is upon us! Hope you are all enjoying-or eagerly anticipating! Wren**


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER XV**

When Athos awoke the next morning, he was lying on his side on the sofa, the sun spilling through the blinds in his living room. He had a splitting headache, and his mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton.

"Never again," he groaned, closing his eyes against the light.

"Let's see—that would be the twenty-third time that I've heard that? Not that I'm counting."

Athos opened one eye to find Aramis stretched out on the leather recliner, the kitten purring in his lap. "I think I hate you."

D'Artagnan walked in, carrying several bottles of water. He tossed one to Aramis, then Athos. "You don't remember, do you?"

He had an odd expression on his face, and something in Athos' brain clicked.

 _The country house._

 _The wine._

 _Anne._

 _She had held a knife to his throat as the house burned around them, and he had begged for her to kill him. But she hadn't, damn her, and he was still alive._

"There was a fire," he said, his tongue thick.

"And you would have been dead if it weren't for the boy wonder there." Porthos nodded at d'Artagnan, his voice hoarse. He was bare to the waist, and his shoulder sported a thick bandage. "How did it start, anyway?"

"I'm not sure," Athos murmured. "I was quite drunk at the time."

Aramis sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "If you don't learn to exercise a bit of caution, Athos, you're going to end up dead."

"Won't we all one day?" Athos' voice was dull, and his face was etched with fatigue.

"Perhaps. But after Adele…" The anesthesiologist's voice trailed off, and he grabbed his jacket. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"I'll go with you." Porthos stood up, wincing as he reached for his shirt.

Aramis glanced at him. "I'd prefer that you stay here."

"I know you would." The big man grinned. "That's why I'm goin'."

They left the apartment a few minutes later, and headed down the street. Aramis walked at a slow pace, his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. He was uncharacteristically quiet. Porthos kept pace with him, allowing his friend time to work through his thoughts.

When they reached an intersection, Aramis' eyes focused on a small park on the other side of the street.

"Nice patch of green in the middle of all this concrete," commented the big man.

"I used to meet Adele there…at dusk. It was our favorite time of the day. The park would be nearly empty, and we'd walk along the path that leads past the little pond. Sometimes we'd feed the ducks." He turned to his friend, and shook his head. "She didn't deserve what happened to her, Porthos. Richelieu killed her, and he thinks he's gotten away with it. I can't let that happen."

"He won't." Porthos turned to his friend, his expression fierce. "We'll make sure of that."

xxx

By Monday morning, Porthos' shoulder was still aching, but the swelling had gone down considerably. He thanked his lucky stars that he had only sustained a superficial wound from the bullet. It had just required a thorough cleansing and a dose of antibiotics. If he had had to seek care through official channels, far too many questions would have arisen.

 _I've been through much worse._

Fishing out the key to his office from his pocket, he opened up the door and switched on the light. A cardboard box sat on his desk. Holes were punched in the sides, and a smart red bow was jauntily perched on the top.

Tossing his jacket onto the battered orange couch that leaned against the wall, Porthos cautiously approached the desk. His fingers slid around the sharp corners of the box, shaking it for a few seconds. A slow, scraping shuffle came from within. He retreated several paces, taking cover behind the file cabinet. When all remained silent, the big man peered out from his hiding place, and spied a small envelope that was affixed to the top of the box.

Edging along the side of the cabinet, he grabbed the envelope, then slid back to his cover. He inspected the missive carefully, then pulled out his Swiss Army knife, slitting the envelope open. A folded piece of paper was contained within. He slid it out, then read as follows:

 _Dear Porthos-_  
 _Words cannot express how grateful I am for your kindness. Ever since I was a tiny babe, clinging to rocks in the curving bends of the Umpqua River, I have wished for a forever home. Now, I am certain that I have found it with you. My shell has been tingling with anticipation ever since I landed on this desk. Please know that I owe you a debt that I hope someday to repay. For now, I remain, ever yours-_

 _Tinkerbell the Turtle_

 _I am not believin' this._ Porthos put his head in his hands, shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. _Athos, there is nowhere for you to hide, my friend. Trust me._

xxx

One floor below him, Athos walked into the SICU, a large black coffee from the cafeteria in hand. The unit was quiet, which was distinctly unusual. At 0630, shift change was usually well underway, with the night shift nurses giving report to the bright-eyed day crew. A single medical student stood at the desk, his short, well-pressed white coat loudly proclaiming to the world that he was new to the world of clinical medicine.

"Lieutenant Colonel Athos?" The young man jumped up, his face full of anticipation. "I'm Ensign Loper, MS-III. It's an honor, sir. Your reputation precedes you."

Athos regarded him with a cool look. "And what exactly have you heard, Ensign?"

"That you run a tight ship—and that every operation you perform is a veritable masterpiece! Please, sir—may I hold a retractor during your next case? It doesn't matter what time of the day or night—I'm your man! I live and breathe trauma!"

"Indeed?" Athos lifted an eyebrow, his attention drawn to ICU bed 3. A technician had just come running out of the room, holding a blood gas syringe. An instant later, a drape was pulled across the large window that looked into the room.

ICU-3 held a 29 year old civilian emergency, the sole survivor of a gangland-style shootout the weekend before. The woman was 18 weeks pregnant, an innocent bystander to the mayhem around here. Athos had spent 6 hours trying to repair the damage from the bullets. Miraculously, she and her baby had somehow survived.

 _I'll be damned if I lose them now_.

In an instant, he was inside the room. The lights were low, and classical music was playing in the background. CPR was being administered in precise, methodical fashion by one of the ICU technicians.

"Hold CPR!" called out a slim woman. She stood at the end of the be, attired in rumpled green scrubs. Her red hair had been coaxed into a semblance of a bun, but stray locks fell loosely around her temples. "Aidan, can you feel a pulse?" The technician stopped, his fingers probing the woman's neck.

He shook his head.

"Resume CPR!" she commanded.

Athos moved forward. "There's a doctor here now. I'll take over."

"There already _is_ a doctor here." The redhead turned to him, her grey-green eyes sweeping over him. "I don't believe we've met, Colonel. Major Rhiannon Campbell, cardiology."

"My apologies, Major." Athos inclined his head. "You may not be up to speed on her case, so let me-"

She cut him off, her voice even. "I spent an hour at the bedside last night putting in a temporary pacer _and_ a Swan-Ganz. I'm quite familiar with the patient."

Turning to Serge, she said, "Another milligram of epinephrine, please."

Athos went to the computer terminal tucked in the corner, and pulled up the patient's chart, quickly reviewing the notes from the past 48 hours. An ultrasound had revealed that the patient had developed heart failure from a stress-induced weakening of her heart muscle. Such a condition was usually reversible, but was often accompanied by complications such as dangerous rhythm abnormalities.

He swore under his breath, feeling like an idiot.

By the time the next halt was called to CPR for a pulse check, the patient had a strong pulse, and the crisis was over. After a round of paperwork, the code team dispersed, flushed with success. Major Campbell typed up her note on the computer, then signed off, leaving Serge with a last few instructions.

Ducking into the break room to wash her hands, she turned to find Athos leaning against the counter, his hands shoved into the pocket of his white coat. "About what happened back there—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

"No, it was my fault." Her eyes were trained on her hands as the soap foamed over her fingers. "I tend to get cranky when I'm sleep-deprived. I shouldn't have been so sensitive. It's just that-" She bit her lip, and rinsed her hands off.

"You've been patronized by one too many male physicians?" Athos' voice was soft, and non-judgmental.

The cardiologist tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and sighed. "I'm just tired. But that's no excuse for unprofessional behavior. Can I get you another cup of coffee? I think the unit clerk threw yours out when she was tidying up."

Athos hesitated for an instant, then heard himself smoothly say, "How about a quick bite to eat after work? Do you like Vietnamese food? The pho place around the corner is amazing."

Dr. Campbell brightened up immediately. "I love that restaurant! Pho is such comfort food. Maybe around 6? I should be done with procedures by then."

"I'll text you at 5:30 and let you know if I'll be done with rounds on time."

"Perfect. It's a date." She gave him a shy smile, then turned to go.

"Oh—I suppose I should ask for your mobile number?" Athos suddenly felt incredibly awkward, and cursed himself for his clumsiness.

"That might help." Her eyes warmed as she scribbled it down for him on a slip of paper. "See you this evening."

xxx

Aramis had sweated through several grueling cases in the operating room that day. By the time five o'clock rolled around, he was relieved to extubate his last patient. He inquired after the family, and found the man's elderly sister sitting in a corner of the recovery room. He saw that she was absorbed in perusing the latest issue of _Exposé_. A relatively new celebrity magazine, the tabloid had boosted its profile by heavy coverage of reality TV stars and "true crime" stories.

"Excuse me, are you family of Mr. Williams?"

"Why yes!" The woman put aside the magazine, carefully marking her place with a bookmark graced with butterflies that proclaimed _I don't really go out partying, but I'm definitely a social butterfly_. "What good news do you have for me, doctor?" The smile on her face dissolved the instant she looked up at Aramis.

"You're—you're him!" she gasped, her eyes widening in terror. "How can you even—" Bolting out of her chair, she held up a hand as the magazine fluttered to the ground. "Don't come near me! That sweet young woman didn't deserve what you did to her! I hope you rot in jail!" Without another word, she fled the room, leaving Aramis staring at the open pages of the tabloid. A photo of Adele, sitting on the beach and smiling for the camera, was juxtaposed with a snap of him from a Halloween party that dated back to medical school. He was surrounded by a trio of beautiful women, all rather scantily attired.

 _The playboy military anesthesiologist who put his model girlfriend to sleep—forever!_

* * *

 **The plot thickens...you have to feel for Aramis...**


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER XVI**

Aramis checked on his patient one last time, then took the elevator to the 13th floor and headed up the back staircase to the roof. When he had come on staff, he had inherited a key to the door that led to the top of the building.

"Tradition is that it's handed down to the most junior anesthesiologist," the department chair had told him. "It may not seem like much, but trust me, there will be days you'll be glad to have it."

Emerging onto the roof, Aramis had to agree. Although he was still in the middle of the city, here he was alone, with a panoramic view of the skyline. He could even see the Potomac River lazily skirting the edge of the metropolitan area.

He sat down on the weathered Adirondack chair that stood in the far corner, and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples.

He was suddenly so tired. How had his life become such a mess? All in the space of a week?

 _Richelieu_.

His mobile phone buzzed. He was about to ignore the text until he saw it was from Angelique.

 _Are you okay? I saw the magazine. Do you want me to get in touch with my friend who works at the top law firm in Alexandria? It may be time to call in a big gun._

He picked up his phone, and texted her back.

 _I don't know what to do...and I'm not sure I care anymore._

After a moment, the reply came.

 _We can figure this out. How about I come pick you up and we go for a walk to clear your head? We don't have to talk, but I don't want you to be alone._

He sighed. Although he knew that Angelique's soothing presence was likely just what he needed, he just wanted to be alone tonight.

 _How about I take a rain check? I think I just need some time to myself. I promise I'm okay._

 _Alright…but I'm holding you to it._

As Aramis returned to the physicians' locker room in the OR to change, an urgent text came through from Treville.

 _You and Porthos. Class As. My office. Now._

He leaned his head against the cool metal of his locker.

 _This is it._ _My career is over. He asking me to put on my dress uniform in order to prepare for the indictment._

Ten minutes later, he knocked on Treville's door, and opened it to find the colonel deep in conversation with Porthos. The Colonel's head jerked up. "Where have you been?" Treville growled.

"I-"

"Never mind! Walk with me." He strode out of the office, Porthos and Aramis following. Leaving the building via a side exit, he led them to a waiting black SUV, the engine already running. They had barely closed the doors when the vehicle shot forward.

Porthos glanced at Aramis, giving him a questioning look. He shook his head slightly.

"Sir, may I ask where we are going?

"The three of us have been summoned to the White House for a meeting with the president. That's all I know." Treville's voice was tense. He stared out the window, clearly not in the mood for conversation.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Once the SUV had been vetted by White House security, the driver was directed to take them to the curving drive that led behind the mansion. Upon exiting the vehicle, they were led into the East Garden.

"Takin' us through the back door, eh?" observed Porthos.

"Quite the contrary." The three men turned to see a grinning Radley, who was sporting a loud Hawaiian shirt. "Remember me? It's nice to see you again, gentlemen. You should feel quite fortunate. Not everyone scores an invitation to BH2." He lowered his voice. "It's quite an honor, you know. Usually the President only invites captains of industry, or celebrities."

"BH2?" inquired Aramis.

The staffer rolled his eyes. "Bourbon Happy Hour, of course!" He took a few steps back, surveying their appearance. "It appears as though you are a bit overdressed, though. Those military uniforms will totally ruin the mood, and I really don't need a cranky President this evening. Come on, I've a little closet for just this reason."

He led them to a corner office inside the East Wing, and threw up the door to a small closet. A garish collection of shirts were neatly arranged on matching hangers. "Alright, these are the rules. I've had to referee way too many arguments about who gets what shirt. One Direction came here at the height of their popularity, and they were _way_ out of control. My word is law, and I have security to back me up, gentlemen." He scrutinized Aramis for a moment, then handed him an aqua shirt graced with pink flamingos. "Totally you."

"That will go great with my blue polyester pants," muttered Aramis, ignoring Porthos' muffled laughter.

"Sorry man...I don't store pants here. There's not enough room in the closet. The other half is devoted to my clubbing clothes, and I can't deal with them getting wrinkled." Radley glanced up at Porthos, then dove for a hanger. "Major Porthos, I have the perfect one for you!" He pulled out a neon orange shirt festooned with sea turtles. "Remind you of Tiger Lily?"

"I believe you're referring to Tinkerbell."

"Whatever. I just need for her to look fierce when she poses with you for the recruiting poster." He turned to Treville. "Now for the colonel. We need something manly. Ah, I have just the thing!" He reached in and pulled out a shirt that sported a multitude of great white sharks. "Killer, eh?" He laughed uproariously, slapping Treville on the back.

Treville gave him a thin smile, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

As they were led into the private garden, Radley picked up his cell and punched in a number. "The bluebirds have landed."

As if on cue, President Bourbon strode into the garden. "Gentlemen! Welcome to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue! I see Radley got you appropriately kitted out. The shirts look fab with the blue polyester!" He chuckled, slapping Treville on the back.

"Thank you for the invitation, Mr. President." Treville forced a polite smile to his face. "Will the First Lady be joining us?"

The President put his arm around Treville's shoulders, and said conspiratorially, "No women allowed, Colonel! It's a ground rule of BH2. Anyway, the First Lady is busy planning some charity thing." He waved his hand absently. "I believe it has something to do with sick kids...or inner-city tennis clinics...or sick kids in the inner city who want to learn to play tennis."

"I see," Treville murmured. "Well, you must be sure to give her our regards."

Louis, however, had turned his attention to a curvaceous server in a colorful sarong, who floated towards them with a tray of drinks.

"May I offer you a Whiskey Rock-a-Roller, Mr. President?" she cooed.

"Ah, my favourite bourbon-based cocktail!" He took the glass with his right hand, and slid his left along the curve of her lower back. "May I say that you are looking fetching as ever, Mariel?"

"Why, thank you, Mr. President." She slanted her dark eyes up at him. "I'm at your service, as always."

"And what service you provide," murmured Louis with a grin, giving her bottom a light swat as she sashayed away. "Treville, I fancy a game of horseshoes. Come with me."

Aramis looked away, repelled by the President's behavior. He thought of Anne, and wondered how she managed to put up with her husband. The First Lady seemed gracious and kind, and she was certainly beautiful. _He's an idiot,_ he thought grimly.

Porthos handed him a drink. "He may be a pig, but he's our Commander-in-Chief. Can you try not to be so obvious?"

Aramis shook his head. "I'm just—so done with all of this. All of these people in power, Porthos—"

The big man took his arm and led him off to a tall hedge at the opposite side of the garden. Louis had drawn Treville over to the horseshoe pit at the far end of the area, so they had a moment relative privacy.

"You need to calm down," muttered Porthos. "What's got you so upset?"

Aramis downed half his drink, then stared at Porthos. "Have you seen the latest issue of _Expose_?"

Porthos raised an eyebrow. "It's not exactly my cup of tea. I get enough of the Kardashians and their like on social media."

"Well, this week's magazine struck a little too close to home for me. There's a feature on Adele—and the "playboy military anesthesiologist" who killed her."

"Are you serious?" Porthos bristled. "Richelieu?"

"Who else? He means to take me down, Porthos."

Xxxx

Athos sat at a small table at Pho DC, gazing out at the street below the second-floor restaurant. It had been another hot, humid day in the city, and the air conditioning in the restaurant was a welcome relief. He shifted in his chair, looking at his watch once again. _How the hell did I get myself into this?_

At the time, it had seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. He had asked Rhiannon to dinner on impulse, and was now berating himself for having been so impetuous. Looking down at his wrinkled khakis, he grimaced. If he was lucky, she wouldn't show up.

Just then, the door pushed open, tinkling the bell attached to it.

"Hi Mai! It's been a while!"

"Rhiannon! Where have you been hiding?" The slim young Asian woman behind the counter hugged the redhead, then grabbed a menu.

"The hospital has been insane the last few weeks," replied Rhiannon ruefully. "To be honest, I've been too tired to even stop by and pick up takeout."

"Well, we're glad to have you back! Look, your table is waiting for you!" She pointed to a table in the far corner.

"Actually, I'm eating with someone." Rhiannon glanced over at Athos with a shy smile, and waved.

"Really?" Mai's eyes sharpened, and she grinned. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy this." She led her customer over to the table, then turned and gave Athos a mock glare. "It's all becoming clear now, my friend."

Athos sighed. "This is just two colleagues having dinner, Mai. Nothing more."

"Please, Athos!" She put her hands on her hips. "All those times you put me off when I tried to set you up with my cousin Chloe! 'I'm too busy, Mai…I have to work on a research project, Mai…I'm not a good conversationalist, Mai. That was just a bunch of barnyard confetti."

"What would I have in common with a professional surfer who does performance art in her spare time?"

"That's besides the point!" she retorted. "But if you won't have Chloe, this woman would be my next choice to rock your world. Now don't act all shy, Rhiannon! I've seen you in class." Mai headed off fetch them some drinks, her laughter floating behind her.

"Class?" Athos raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah." Rhiannon flushed. "We take a dance class together."

"Ballet? Or something more modern?"

Mai placed two tall glasses of iced tea on the table. "Oh, it's modern all right. You wouldn't catch your granny doing it."

Rhiannon shot her a warning look. "I think what Mai means is that it's-"

The door of the restaurant suddenly opened, and a man walked in with a clipboard, his head bobbing to muted music blaring from his headphones.

"Can I help you?" Mai asked.

"Yeah, I've a delivery for a-Lt. Col. Athos?" He looked around uncertainly, then spied Athos. "Yo, man, is that you?"

Athos stood up. "Well, yes, but I-"

"Be right back." The deliveryman vanished out the door, and returned a minute later with a bouquet of flowers in an exquisite crystal vase. Placing them on the table, he held out his clipboard. "Sign here."

Rhiannon flushed. "Those are beautiful, but Athos, you really didn't-"

Athos barely heard her. His eyes were focused on the delicate blue flowers in the vase. _Forget-me nots._

* * *

" **Class A" or "service dress" uniforms are the dress uniforms that Air Force personnel wear.**

 **I never tire of writing Athos and Milady. More of them soon...but first I need to turn my attention back to Aramis and Anne.**


End file.
